


Teach Me to Dream

by CamsthiSky



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Batfamily Feels, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except It's in a Flashback, Future Memories, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Leslie Thompkins will make brief appearances, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11464950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamsthiSky/pseuds/CamsthiSky
Summary: Dick’s eleven. Not thirteen and eager to prove himself. Not seventeen and mourning a brother. Not nineteen and wishing his best friend wasn’t dead and Bruce would look him in the eyes. He’s only eleven. So why does he remember all of that?





	1. Determine Your Reality - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has been a fic I've been working on for a long time, and I've finally written the first few chapters and finished outlining the plot. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I already have over 15k written for this, so we'll see where we end up. Also, the reason I'm finally posting this is because I'm doing the 30 day writing challenge, and today's is:
> 
> Day 10 - Put your characters in the weirdest AU you can imagine.
> 
> So, not the weirdest, but it's been a blast writing this. Enjoy!

It starts with a dream.

A terrible, heart-wrenching dream, and he wants to cry his eyes out and curl up under his sheets just to block out the world. It’s a dream that has him waking up with a jolt, eyes wide and terrified as things he’s never experienced play through his mind. There’s so much, and it bombards him all at once. He can’t make sense of any of it, and it’s _horrible._ He wants it to stop.

It takes a few moments, but he’s finally able to dig through everything swirling around in his head and he remembers who he is.

His name is Richard—Dick. He’s eleven years old. He’s the ward of Bruce Wayne. He’s Robin.

Dick has faced the Joker, the Riddler, Mr. Freeze—most of Gotham’s underworld, really—and _nothing_ , not even the psychotic clown, terrifies him as much as the new memories swirling around in his mind. He’d take the criminals any day, he thinks.

Because at least criminals are something he can _fight._ The dream, the memories, they aren’t something he can punch in the face or outmaneuver. There’s nothing to stop them from taking over his head and make him forget who and where he is.

So he hides under the blankets, shivering and trembling with trepidation far greater than he’s ever experienced before, and some part of him is broken and sharp-edged in a way he hadn’t been when he’d fallen asleep the night before.

Who dreams of something like that and stays sane? Who dreams of nine years worth of future memories and doesn’t come out different on the other side?

Certainly not Dick Grayson.

* * *

 After what has to be hours, Dick peeks out from under the blankets. He doesn’t feel so overwhelmed anymore. His head is still running around in circles, but he can’t quite comprehend his own thoughts, so he tries not to pay attention to it.

He looks around his room with new a new sort of perspective. His eyes catch on the Flying Graysons poster opposite his bed, and memories he hadn’t known he’d had _hurl_ into him. Dick can’t take a breath properly without choking, and this isn’t a panic attack. This is something else entirely. Something _worse._

 _His parents are falling, and Dick can only watch in horror as they drop down to their deaths, their bodies hitting the ground. Someone’s screaming, Dick realizes after a moment, and it takes even longer to realize that it’s_ him. _Dick is the one screaming._

_And then he’s flying, but it isn’t with his family, because the Graysons are dead, and they’ve been dead for five years. Jack’s in trouble, though, and flying is the only way Dick can think of that will help._

_Dick knows Jack, knows the circus like the back of his hand—or. He did. Before. But whether the circus is still the same or not, Dick knows that Jack would never have changed so much that he’d turn to criminality. He’s a ring master, not a thief._

_So Dick’s putting everything on the line, but even with his successful infiltration, there’s a part of him that wonders if he’s doing the right thing by interfering with something that’s so_ obviously _personal. Batman will be so upset. He shouldn’t be here._

 _And yet, all of Dick’s memories scream at him. He_ needs _to save Jack, if not for himself than for his parents. The old man had been like a grandfather to him, as near and dear to his heart as Bruce and Alfred are._

_It’s hard to deal with, and Dick’s feeling sick on top of it all._

_He’s not flying anymore. Somehow he’s gone from missing M’gann’s hands by mere centimeters to feet planted firmly on the ground, staring at the colorful poster of his family’s old poster hanging there like a memorial. Dick feels sick to his stomach, and this time it has nothing to do with his illness._

_His comm beeps, bringing him back to reality, and Dick hesitates only a moment before he answers it—it could be Bruce, or another Leaguer, and then Dick would be in so much trouble—but it’s not. It’s Wally._

_He’s not sure whether to be relieved or equally as wary._

_“Dude, where are you?” coincides with “What. Happened.” And the memory changes again. Dick is sore and aching and despairing at what he and Kaldur have been driven to, because he’s done_ exactly _what he said he didn’t want to do. He put the mission first._

_The stupid mission. How did it all become about the mission? How had he let himself get this far? Kaldur and Artemis and L’gann, and Garfield and Jaime and Bart. They’ve all become sacrifices of a war Dick’s been forced to wage, and he hates how, if he had to, he’d do the same thing over again. Because it’s the only way he knows might work._

_But Wally stalks towards him with something more than anger in his eyes, and Dick wonders if this is the last straw. The mountain is gone, and now so is their friendship. He’s done it now. Years of slipping further away from each other have taken their toll, and now, when he used to look at Wally and hear the “Dude, that’s what a best pal is_ for,” _all he hears now is the “Why can’t you just_ trust _someone for once!”_

_He hates how right Wally is, too._

_But Dick has never been one to back down, so he ruins the best friendship he’s ever had, and says, “It was necessary,” like it doesn’t make his heart shatter into a thousand pieces._

_Wally’s eyes glint in his rage, and he opens his mouth—_

Dick surfaces from the memories gasping for air, like he’s been underwater and he’s coming up for air. Confused and unable to make sense of anything, Dick lies there. He’s lost his sense of reality. Is everything just a memory? A dream? Is anything real? Is _he_ real?

He doesn’t think so. Not anymore, at least. But he doesn’t know how to prove that he either is or isn’t, so he abandons the contemplation of his entire being and crawls out of bed. He pulls the covers with him, and then sneaks out his bedroom door.

And, so, it’s not really _sneakin_ g, per se, but it’s something akin to it as he pads barefoot down the hall, softly and cautiously with all the training he’s ever been offered, blankets sliding after him. He’s not quiet enough to qualify Batman’s brand of sneaking, even with whispers of _something_ in his head showing how he can be even quieter as long as he steps just like _this,_ but Dick doesn’t mind.

It makes him feel like himself to ignore what the half-formed memories tell him. He can barely comprehend them anyways, so he doesn’t pay them attention, instead turning the doorknob to Bruce’s bedroom and slipping quietly into the room.

Bruce is snoozing on away on the bed, and Dick tries not to sigh in relief as he contemplates waking Bruce up.

On the one hand, it’s approaching four in the morning, and Dick imagines that Bruce probably _just_ got home and into bed within the last couple hours. He’s not going to be happy to be shaken awake with less than two hours of sleep under his belt, especially when he has to be up by eight in order to get to work on time.

Besides, Dick is supposed to be old enough to handle the nightmares himself, now.

On the _other_ hand, Dick’s too raw and hollowed out, too young and yet too old to understand what he’s supposed to do with these memories in his head, showing him a future he doesn’t know will come true—or maybe his brain just came up with the whole thing, which means that he’s just really, _really_ screwed up.

In either case, he needs some sort of comfort from the man who took him in and loved him, so he creeps closer to the bed. Waking Bruce up is the only way Dick thinks he might be able to make sense of all of this.

Bruce doesn’t shift when he approaches, so he’s probably tired enough that his paranoia has switched off, and Dick tries not to feel too guilty.

He finally gets close enough to make out Bruce’s face in the gloom, and it’s just his luck that the memories kick-start. Dick sees another million things that have nothing and yet _everything_ to do with Bruce, it’s pure agony trying to make sense of more than a few things.

_“I know it’s hard,” Bruce tells him, hugging Dick to his chest, “but you can’t blame yourself. You weren’t even there.”_

_“But I should’ve been,” Dick sobs. “He asked me—I should have gone with him!”_

_“And then what I would have is,” Bruce swallows, tightening his grip on Dick, who has collapsed in his lap like he’s seven instead of seventeen, “what I would have is two dead kids, Dick. This isn’t your fault.”_

_Two sons dead would literally kill Bruce. Hell,_ one _dead is already killing him, and it’s killing Dick, too. How is Bruce even coherent right now? Dick’s head is a mess and he can’t get himself to function because Jason’s_ dead—

And then.

_Wally’s dead. A swallow past the lump growing in his throat almost makes Dick choke, but he doesn’t. He’s Nightwing right now, even if he won’t be for very much longer, and he can’t afford to—can’t afford—_

_“Nightwing, report.”_

_“We defeated the Reach. I’ll have my report written by morning—” he wouldn’t, he can’t, not yet “—and you’ll have every detail of what happened then.”_

_Batman doesn’t comfort him. Not like he had back then, when it was both of them hurting. Now that it’s just Dick in agony, Batman just_ looks _at him. Doesn’t see the hurt, only everything that Dick had done wrong while half the Justice League was on trial. He doesn’t say anything else, either._

_So Dick says, “Wally’s dead,” his voice flat. It doesn’t hurt any less to say it out loud, but Dick keeps going. “Mount Justice is gone. My friends hate me. I’m leaving, and you’ll have my report by morning.”_

_Batman doesn’t look sad when he tells Dick, “It was necessary.”_

_And Dick hates himself when he says, “I wish it hadn’t been.”_

_The next morning, Dick sends his report to Batman, detailing the Invasion and Wally’s death, and then he’s gone. Dick Grayson disappears, and no one knows where he is, not even Bruce Wayne. It doesn’t take a long time for people to realize that he isn’t coming back._

Dick blinks back to reality, tears in his eyes as he tries not to let the emotions of the memories overwhelm him again. Bruce’s face had really sparked all that emotion? It was so _strong_ and Dick hadn’t felt emotion like that since—well, since.

Part of Dick wants to jump on top of Bruce and wrap his arms around the man he sees as a father and never let go, but the other part of him, the older part of Dick that he doesn’t understand and thinks he never will, wants to scream. He wants to scream and cry and yell _how could you do this to me? How could you let me become everything you told me never to be?_ and Dick has no idea what to do next.

He may have skipped a grade, but these feel like adult problems, and Dick’s eleven. Not thirteen and eager to prove himself. Not seventeen and mourning a brother. Not nineteen and wishing his best friend wasn’t dead and Bruce would look him in the eyes. He’s only eleven.

He starts sobbing, loud enough to startle Bruce awake.

“Wha…Dick?” the man asks, bleary-eyed and not at all prepared to deal with a sobbing child at four am. He sits up, bewildered beyond belief, and he holds out his arms, offering comfort easily, even without knowing what’s going on. Even though he’s exhausted.

Dick snatches up the offer before it can be rescinded. He climbs onto the giant bed and all but falls into Bruce’s awaiting arms, ignoring Bruce’s soft _“oof”_ at the force Dick puts into it. He curls his small arms around Bruce’s neck, and Bruce’s own arms fold around him and pull him into his chest, like a protective wall against the world, working much better than his abandoned blankets had.

“Dick?” Bruce asks again. “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

“I don’t know,” Dick confesses tearily.

He hates that he doesn’t know whether those memories are just a figment of his imagination or whether it’s something he needs to watch out for two, five, nine years down the line. He wonders if he’ll even get that far before screwing things up.

“You don’t know?” Bruce asks, and he sounds confused, still half-asleep, and the guilt of waking him up wars with the need for comfort. “What do you mean?”

But Dick doesn’t know how to explain it. He doesn’t know how to make sense of anything in his head right now. And he certainly doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be a real person anymore. He doesn’t know _anything_ anymore, and it’s frightening.

Dick sobs harder, and that seems to stop Bruce’s questioning for now, which is good, because Dick doesn’t have answers for him. He doesn’t even know where to start.

“Hey,” Bruce hushes. “Hey, it’s okay, Dickie. You’re alright.”

He’s not. He’s _so far_ from alright. But he lets Bruce try to rock him back into a fitful slumber, jerking awake every time a new memory surges up to engulf him again. Dick is shaking, trembling, and Bruce tries to hush him and murmur reassurances, but they both realize pretty quick that neither of them are going back to sleep anytime soon.

* * *

 Dick zones out while Bruce dozes. He can’t make sense of anything, really, and he’s so tired, but he’s too afraid of what he’ll see if he closes his eyes longer than a blink. But even with Bruce curled protectively around him, even despite his most valiant efforts, the memories don’t stay away.

He doesn’t try to make sense of them buzzing around in his mind, though, because from what he’s peeked at so far, he doesn’t think any of it will be pleasant. It seems his whole life is just doomed to get harder and harder. Like he’s cursed or something.

Dick doesn’t know how long he sits there staring at the ceiling in some sort of numb state, but it’s long enough that the sun is peeking through the curtains and Alfred is opening the door by the time he shakes back to himself.

“Master Dick?” Alfred calls softly when he realizes Dick’s awake, bewilderment apparent in his voice, and Dick’s stomach does enough flips to make even _him_ sick. Bruce doesn’t stir, though, so that’s a plus. Still, it would be nice to have Bruce awake, if only so Dick doesn’t have to face Alfred alone. “Master Dick, are you quite alright?”

Dick bites his lip, but he doesn’t trust himself to say anything. He might start crying again, and Alfred’s not someone he should dump all of this new baggage on.

Alfred leans over the bed, catches Dick’s eyes, and gives the boy the most concerned look he’s ever received. “Master Dick?” he asks softly, and Dick’s plunged back into a memory, this one tinged with an undercurrent of fear and desperation instead of just sadness and despair like the others.

_“Master Dick?” Alfred calls, and his voice is as soft and gentle as his touch as he smooths back Dick’s sweaty hair._

_Dick can’t recall where they are. Not in the manor, he knows. There’s a reason they can’t go back there, but the reason is lost to the fever currently rampaging through Dick’s system. At twenty, you’d think Dick would know better than to ignore a warning about those cuts. Now he’s down, poisoned, and Bruce is missing. It’s just him and Alfred, somewhere he can’t recall._

_“Please, Master Dick,” Alfred says, still sounding so quiet and worried. Something metal presses against Dick’s chapped lips. “You need to eat something. You won’t be able to regain your strength unless you do.”_

_Dick doesn’t open his mouth. He can’t. If he does, he’s going to start screaming from the pain, and he_ can’t _scream. There’s a reason, he knows, but it’s lost, just like the reason to why they can’t return to the manor._

_“Did he eat anything in the past couple hours?” someone asks from across the room, something like a door closing a second after. “He looks worse.”_

_“No,” Alfred sighs, and the metal retreats from Dick’s lips. “He refuses to eat, and we don’t have enough IVs left to keep him hydrated for very much longer.”_

_“Have you heard from Bruce yet?”_

_Another sigh. “I’m afraid not.”_

_Where_ is _Bruce? Dick can’t remember the answer to that, either. He can’t remember why it’s Alfred petting his hair and trying to get him to eat and not his father. Dick feels almost angry at the fact that Bruce isn’t here to press worried lips against his forehead and assure Dick that Batman will take care of everything and that’s_ it’s okay, Robin, you earned a rest.

 _Those words don’t sound quite right in Dick’s head, though, and it takes him a few minutes to realize why. He’s_ not _Robin, not anymore. The endearment has been passed on like a title, and Dick isn’t sure the last time he was actually called by that name by_ anybody, _let alone someone who knows what it means._

_There’s a clatter that echoes around them, and through half-open lids, Dick sees Alfred stiffen and turn towards the entrance._

_“Not good,” that someone else murmurs—Leslie, he thinks when he sees her, it’s Leslie—and then the room explodes into sound and chaos, and Alfred—oh god,_ Alfred. _Dick doesn’t know where Alfred is, he doesn’t know where Bruce is, and he feels like someone’s ripping through his skin with a knife._

 _That, of course, is when Dick realizes_ they are _. Someone’s stabbing him, carving into him—_

_—and Dick fights, lashing out at those hands holding him down. But he’s too dehydrated and sick for this, and he can’t fight off an army of enemies that want to hurt him, and they manage to grab him again._

_Dick’s looking into the eyes of the man who is going to kill him, and there’s a glint of glee that makes Dick’s stomach churn with fear. He can hear Alfred yelling in the background, but no one comes to save him. No Alfred, no Bruce, no Leslie. No Wally and no Jason and no Tim, either, because they’re dead. No one is coming to save him._

_“This is gonna hurt,” the man says, a knife glinting in the dim light, and then—_

Dick screams, lost in the haze of memories, and he’s writhing in agony against the pain of blades drawn across his skin again and again, and it’s only when Bruce holds him down that Dick realizes he’s not in the midst of an enemy attack—

“Dick!” Bruce yells, fighting to pin Dick’s arms to the bed without hurting him. “Dick, it’s okay. You’re okay, you’re fine! It’s—ow—it’s okay!”

—he’s in Bruce’s bed, surrounded by the terrified expressions of the people that took him in and gave him a home after he lost everything. Alfred is here. _Bruce_ is here. He’s safe.

But he’s not okay.

Dick starts to cry again, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as Bruce rests his forehead against Dick’s, his eyelids fluttering shut as Dick watches him murmur something under his breath. Dick’s crying too loud to understand what he’s saying, but he’s also crying too much to ask.

Bruce finally looks up at Dick, pulling away from him slightly to swipe a thumb at the tears. “You’re okay, kiddo,” Bruce breathes. “You’re okay.”

He’s _not._ He doesn’t get why Bruce keeps telling him he is when he’s so obviously _not._ Nothing about this is okay, and he needs Bruce to get that. He needs him to understand, even when he’s not sure how to say that he’s not.

“What’s _wrong_ with me?” Dick sobs, his words barely audible, and Bruce gaze snaps to his own.

“Nothing’s wrong with you. It was just a nightmare,” Bruce tells Dick, but even Dick can see that Bruce doesn’t believe his own words. It seemed more for Bruce’s benefit than Dick’s. “You’re alright, Dick. You’re alright.”

Dick wishes Bruce would just stop saying that. He’s not okay, and he doesn’t know if he ever will be again.


	2. Determine Your Reality - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for this chapter:
> 
> Uh, this chapter got a lot more graphic than I meant to make it, so I made sure to tag graphic descriptions of violence. There's also the fact that Dick's really struggling mentally with this entire thing, so there is definite psychological trauma that Dick kind of acknowledges but doesn't understand, so just be aware that this is from Dick's point of view as a child going through a traumatic experience. I think that's it?

It takes more than a while for Dick to calm down, and by the time he doesn’t feel like he’s going shake apart with the force of his emotions, it’s almost 8:30. Bruce has work soon, they all know, but no one seems ready to do anything about it just yet. Bruce keeps holding him, Alfred stands at the end of the bed, a carefully controlled expression on his face, and Dick is too exhausted to do more than lie there.

He feels numb. It was too much at once, and now he can’t imagine how he’s supposed to feel anything ever again. He wants to stay here in Bruce’s arms forever, leave the world and the memories behind.

Of course, Dick should have learned by now that life always seem to have something in store for him.

* * *

 Alfred clears his throat after a little while, and he looks apologetic. Dick knows that time’s up, no matter how much he doesn’t want this frozen state they’re in to shatter. “Master Bruce, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you about the contract signing with Mr. Lauridsen’s company today at ten o’clock.”

“Cancel it,” Bruce says, and he seems to be just as much against leaving the bed as Dick is. Dick, still not up to feeling much at the moment, doesn’t say anything for or against this. Alfred’s word is law, and Bruce _does_ have work, even if Dick really doesn’t want to be alone right now, but he won’t get in the middle of this. “Lucius will understand.”

“Mr. Fox informed me that it was _crucial_ you attend this meeting, Master Bruce.”

“I’m not leaving Dick like this,” Bruce argues, even as Alfred sets out a suit with a funny tie—the one Dick had gotten Bruce for the Father’s Day a couple months ago. It’s a silly little thing with smiling cupcakes, and most people probably wouldn’t be caught dead with that thing around their neck. But Dick thinks that Bruce secretly loves those silly ties, because every time that Dick gets him a new one, he wears it, and not just because Alfred sets them out.

Except—that’s not quite right, Dick thinks. Because that cupcake tie is the first one that Dick’s ever gotten Bruce, and yet he remembers the one with the bananas and the one with the zebra and _definitely_ the one with the little Superman logos all over it that Dick had only gotten Bruce for Christmas because he had been mad at him for—for something.

Dick pushes his face into Bruce’s chest, his eyebrows scrunching up as he tries to remember something that’s never happened. It’s a weird experience, and Dick isn’t sure he isn’t crazy, yet.

“I’m afraid that if you miss this meeting, your relationship with Mr. Lauridsen will deteriorate,” Alfred says, his face revealing nothing, “and I am sure that many people will benefit from both companies signing this contract.”

“I don’t need this contract, Alfred.”

“Mr. Fox might disagree.”

“Then Lucius can handle the signing,” Bruce snaps, his arms tightening around Dick, and Dick looks back up to see that Bruce looks pretty pissed off. “I’m not leaving him by himself.”

“What am I?” Alfred asks, raising an eyebrow. “Chopped liver?”

“No, but—”

“Master Dick will be fine for a few hours while you attend the meeting,” Alfred says with a tone of finality. “Now, breakfast will be served in ten minutes. Please dress yourself and prove to me that I’m not dealing with a child.”

And with that, Alfred’s out the door. Dick winces at the sharp click. It’s not like Alfred slams doors in anger, but it’s also not a good thing to piss him off. This whole thing is Dick’s fault, he knows. He doesn’t regret going to Bruce, but he also doesn’t like that he’s driven his two favorite people to arguing with each other.

After a moment of staring after the butler, Bruce sighs.

“How are you feeling, Dick?” Bruce asks instead of getting up. “Any better?”

Dick frowns. “I’m not sick.”

“I didn’t say you were.” There’s a pause, but Dick isn’t looking at him anymore, so it’s anyone’s guess what his expression is like. “But that was a nasty dream, and last time you had a nightmare that bad you ended up with a fever.”

Dick remembers that, and it’s one of _his_ memories. The real, eleven-year-old Dick Grayson’s memories. But it’s tinged with this haze, like it’s _years_ old, not months, and Dick doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like how the new memories are getting in the way of the ones that _he_ made.

So, even though it isn’t one of his nicest memories, Dick hangs onto it with a death grip, replaying it in his head.

He’d had a dream about his parents falling, he remembers, but this time they were dead _before_ they hit the ground, shot dead by Tony Zucco. And then Zucco had turned and _Bruce_ had been standing there, and Zucco shot _him_ dead, too. Dick had screamed himself awake, and Bruce ran into Dick’s bedroom just moments before Dick could be sick all over the floor.

Dick hadn’t let Bruce out of his sight for the rest of day. He’d been so sick that he hadn’t been able to go out as Robin that night, and Bruce had decided not to go out, either. Instead, he just held Dick in his arms until they had both fallen asleep.

It’s nice to remember something that’s already happened to him, something that’s defined him and shaped him already, Dick thinks. But it’s not enough to push away the numbness that’s dug its sharp claws into him.

“Dick?” Bruce asks, and Dick startles, blinking up at Bruce’s worried eyes. They search his own for a moment, and Dick doesn’t know what Bruce sees. He doesn’t know if his face is blank or dazed or whatever. He just feels—cut off. Emotionless. “You look way too pale, kiddo. Are you sure you don’t feel sick?”

“I’m fine,” Dick lies, and the words burn his tongue. He knows he isn’t convincing anybody, but he’s not ready to try to explain this when he doesn’t understand it himself, just yet. And maybe, _maybe,_ as much as it terrifies him, Bruce being away for a few hours will give him the time he needs to figure out what’s wrong with his head. So, yeah. He lies. “You should just—just go to your meeting.”

Bruce purses his lips. “Fine. But if you still look this bad when I get home, I’m calling Leslie.”

Dick ignores the _something_ that whispers in his head, and says, “I’m fine, Bruce. You don’t need to call Dr. Thompkins.”

Bruce so obviously doesn’t believe him, but he also seems to understand that this isn’t an argument they should be having right now, so he drops the subject, plants a kiss onto the top of Dick’s head, and then lets go. Bruce rolls out of bed and starts getting dressed.

Dick, his heart pounding now that Bruce isn’t holding him anymore, curls back under the covers and wonders if he’s just made a terrible mistake.

* * *

 Dick walks around like a ghost for the rest of the morning. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t see Bruce off when he leaves for work, doesn’t go to school. He just wanders through the halls of the manor in his pajamas, tracing the walls with his fingers, his mind snagging on half-formed memories every now and again. Most of them are filled with happy days of Dick growing up loved by Bruce and Alfred, but a few are tinged with darker emotions. Both types, happy and sad, start to creep in past the numbness.

Images flash in his head as he passes rooms and objects. The study, where Bruce had kept Dick from falling apart after Jason’s death. The balcony overlooking the foyer, which Dick had jumped from to hang from the chandelier, only to crash to the ground and break his arm. The bedroom that would eventually be Tim’s, where Dick had broken his hand on Bruce’s jaw for—for something.

It’s hard to pick out details sometimes, Dick notices as he starts down the staircase to the first floor. If he’s not fully immersed in the memory, just skimming the surface, then it’s easier not to feel the emotions behind it, but it’s hard to understand the full context of any of it. If Dick had to pick an analogy, it’d be like browsing through a book.

Having a bunch of half-formed stories in his head is making Dick a little dizzy, though, so he decides that he’s had enough of wandering.

It’s sometime after eleven when Dick finds a nice chair to settle on in the library, and he just sits there for a while, staring at the wall.

He isn’t sure what’s happening to him, or _why_ it’s happening to him. Assuming he _isn’t_ crazy, where did these memories even come from? And why is it only _him_ that seems to be able to remember horrible events of the future?

Bruce had had no idea what had happened to Dick, and Dick still isn’t sure how he’s even supposed to explain something like that when he doesn’t understand it himself. Maybe, if he can work out the _why_ , then Bruce can help him not be overwhelmed by all these things he keeps seeing.

But it’s like an adventure novel, except Dick’s eleven. He doesn’t feel like this great action hero, ready to save the day. He’s not even a teenager yet, and everything is way too confusing to work out. What’s the purpose of all this? Is he supposed to change the future? Try to prevent some catastrophic event down the line that he hasn’t remembered yet? Is he supposed to save the world?

The only way he can think of to answer any of those questions would be to dive back into the memories, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to do that again. Last night had been a nightmare, and Bruce had been _there_ for most of it. What happens if Dick slips into the wrong memory? What if Dick can’t bring himself out of it? Bruce had had to literally pin him down in order to shake him out of that last one.

But he _does_ need to figure this out. And as terrified as he is of what can happen, he doesn’t want to stress Bruce out more than he has to because of this. Maybe, _maybe_ , if he can find the right memory, then he can figure out the why and he’ll never have to dive into the memories ever again.

Something in Dick’s head that sounds so much like _him_ —the real him, and  he thinks that it just may be what was left after the memories had taken their toll. It tells Dick that this is the stupidest idea that he’s ever come up with. Stupider than taking out his unitard and hunting down the guy who’d killed his parents.

But that had led to Batman and Robin, so Dick isn’t sure how worried he should be.

Dick swallows and tries to prepare himself for what he’s about to do to himself. That last memory, the one of poison rushing through his veins, of knives carving into his skin, it had felt the worst out of all of them, and Dick thinks that maybe that’s where he should start. At the end.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dick takes the plunge, and he hopes that he doesn’t come to regret this. He needs to do this. So Bruce won’t worry. So he can be normal.

_He’s mid-air, swinging from one rooftop to the next, and the cuts on his arm seem to burn. He winces as they pulse with pain, and grits his teeth against it, because they don’t have time for this. They need to get to Clark before it’s too late, and Dick can’t become the weak link here. The world depends on them._

_“Nightwing? Are you alright?” Batman—Bruce—asks as they swing. It’s super weird that Bruce’s words are coming out of Batman’s mouth, though, and Dick is going to tell Batman that, but only as soon as he catches his breath, and if not then, then definitely after they find Clark and save the world._

_They land on the next rooftop, and Dick’s knees buckle underneath him. He’s lucky he knows how to fall, though, so he doesn’t hurt anything else other than his dignity._

_“Nightwing!”_

_Batman’s at his side in an instant—_ he _actually stuck the landing—and Dick’s finding it hard to stay awake. Man, Vandal Savage hadn’t been kidding when he said that most people weren’t lucky enough to survive if this is what happens after only a few nicks from that blade._

_He’s on his back, watching groggily as Batman rips off a glove to press two fingers just underneath Dick’s jaw, feeling Dick’s racing heartbeat. Then Batman feels his forehead. Dick can guess he’s probably too warm from what little he can see of Bruce’s face._

_“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bruce pleads, all soft and gentle as he runs a thumb across Dick’s cheek, and it would almost be a comfort if it weren’t for the fact that Dick feels like he’s about to burn from the inside out._

_“Savage’s knife,” Dick breathes, his head spinning._

_Bruce inhales sharply. “Poison?”_

_“Or maybe a curse,” Dick says, closing his eyes and trying not to let himself think about how stupid it was to ignore the evil guy’s warnings. His words are starting to slur, and he’s on fire, and this is so stupid. They need to save Clark, and the last thing Bruce needs to worry about is Dick._

_“I’m taking you back to Leslie,” Batman says, and even though Dick is twenty years old now, Bruce still somehow manages to cradle him in his arms. Dick blinks and they’re not on top of the roof anymore. Bruce is lowering him into the sewers, dropping down next to him and scooping him up after only a moment to regain his footing._

_They’re headed towards the bunkers, Dick realizes. Not to the Cave—which doesn’t exist anymore, Dick remembers after a moment of confusion—but to the closest safehouse. Leslie and Alfred should be there._

_“Clark,” Dick manages to murmur after a while. “Clark still needs help.”_

_“Clark is Kryptonian,” Bruce argues as he sweeps through the sewers with grace no one else could match ankle-deep in filth. “You’re human. Once Leslie and Alfred treat you, then you can come find me. You know where I’ll be.”_

_He does, but Dick doesn’t answer. It’s all becoming too much, and at some point, he passes out. When he opens his eyes again, it’s Leslie holding his hand and talking to him._

_“I need you to stay awake,” Leslie Thompkins tells him, shining a penlight into each of his eyes in turn. Dick blinks away the black spots and turns his head to look for Bruce, who had just been there. Leslie recaptures his attention with a tap to the cheek. “Look at me, Dick.”_

_“Where’s Bruce?” Dick rasps. “Did he leave already?”_

_“You’ve been out for almost ten minutes,” Leslie says. “He left while I was analyzing your blood samples, and if you even think about going after him right now, I_ will _restrain you.”_

_“But Bruce and Clark—”_

_Leslie starts to fit him for an IV. “Will be fine for now, but you’re in no condition to fight_ me, _let alone a Kryptonian and an immortal.”_

_“Hurry and treat me, then,” Dick tells her. “We don’t have any time.”_

_“I don’t have the antidote synthesized yet.”_

_“Then I’ll go without it. I can last that long.”_

_“Will you just trust him to do this?” Leslie asks, looking haggard, but Dick can’t find it in him to care right now. The whole_ world _depends on whether Bruce and Dick can get to Clark and stop him before Vandal Savage destroys everything in his path. “Bruce can handle this without you for the moment!”_

_“We’re the only ones left!” Dick yells, trying to push himself upright, but Leslie presses down on his chest and overpowers him easily. Dick tries again. “Leslie, he’s going to die if he’s by himself! And what am I supposed to do then? I can’t save Clark by myself!”_

_“Worry about living that long!” Leslie snaps, but her gaze softens after a moment, and she sighs. “Dick, Bruce knows what he’s doing. Just concentrate on getting better so you can go out there and help him, okay?”_

_Dick stares at her. She’s right, of course. Dick’s not any good to anyone half-dead. He’s on fire right now, and until Leslie can put it out, Batman is without a partner, and Dick hates how useless that makes him feel._

When Dick surfaces from the memory, it’s almost like blinking. One minute he’s lying in a medical bed in a bunker deep below Gotham, and the next he’s back in the library, the old clock chiming noon. Lunch will be done soon, and Dick is breathless at the sheer mundaneness of it all.

He’s just remembered something that no one else knows, and the world just keeps turning around him. At least he sort of has an idea of where things went wrong. It isn’t the right memory, but he’s close—

Another memory _slams_ into him full force, and Dick can’t breathe.

_For some reason, they don’t kill him. They carve into him, but they don’t kill him. He’s so weak with poison and blood loss that they probably don’t need to, anyways. He’s dragged through the sewers, away from the bunker, away from the bodies of his friends. Away from any chance he possibly had at staying alive past tonight, probably._

_He pushes away his grief, even as it threatens to swallow him whole. The feeling is familiar enough that Dick doesn’t pause to feel it. He’s got other things to worry about, and he’s learned the hard way that if he wants to be able to mourn, he needs to stay alive._

_He passes out more than a few times throughout the journey, and when he opens his eyes for what has to be the dozenth time, it isn’t the knife-wielding maniac that had carved into his arms that’s staring down at him. It’s Vandal Savage._

_“Well, now,” Savage says. “Looks like I finally found the last ant beneath my feet. You’ve been too much of a nuisance lately. You and Batman.”_

_The last—no. NO._

_“What did you do to him?!” Dick roars. He’s maskless and beltless and gloveless and he can barely do more than drag himself forward an inch, but he doesn’t care. “What did you do?! TELL ME!”_

_“To Batman?” Savage asks, raising a scarred eyebrow. “Nothing. He’s alive.”_

_And Dick almost sobs in relief. After losing everyone else, he doesn’t think he can survive losing Bruce, too. As long as he has Bruce, he thinks that maybe he can try and live on. Even if it’s not going to be for very much longer. Dick can feel the poison flowing through his veins, and with Leslie and Alfred dead, with Bruce going after Clark, he isn’t going to make it past tonight._

_It’s only then, when he knows that Bruce is alive, that Dick realizes where he’s been dragged. He’s in an open room with a vaulted ceiling, and he’s lying in a pool of his own blood in the middle of some kind of circle in the very center of the room. Ancient glowing symbols surround him, and Vandal looks way too smug for this to be a coincidence._

_“With Superman as he is, though,” Savage continues, “I doubt he’ll stay that way for very much longer. I give it only a few hours before Superman crushes the life out of him.” One of Savage’s men hand him a knife—the same one that Savage had cut Dick with before—and Savage points it at Dick, a smirk playing across his lips. “You, however, you only have minutes.”_

_“The poison,” Dick gasps out._

_“Not poison,” Savage tells him, crouching down next to where Dick can barely move. “It’s blessed with dark magic, and whomever the blade touches, they are doomed to lose their soul.”_

_Dick gives his best glare. “What does that even mean?”_

_“It means I can use you. I was going to let you suffer for the rest of your sad, pathetic life, but it turns out I need a sacrifice for this ritual,” Savage grins, “and_ you _are the perfect candidate.”_

_Savage plunges the blade down, and for a moment, Dick can’t believe what’s happening. This is it. So many times in his short life, since he was nine years old donning the Robin suit for the first time, he’d known that the only way he was ever going to die was saving people. And now? Now everyone he loves is dead, and it’s all been for nothing._

_The knife sinks into Dick’s stomach, and he can’t breathe. He’s dying. He’s dying, and there’s nothing he can do about the red that flows out of him and seeps into the circle. Savage murmurs something in another language, but Dick can’t_ breathe. _Bruce isn’t here, and he’s all alone, and tears pour from the corners of his eyes._

_Savage roars something else, and agony races up Dick’s spine. He screams incoherently as the pain consumes him. Light blinds him, and the last thing Dick Grayson remembers before he dies is Vandal Savage’s laughter ringing in his ears._

_And then it’s dark. And he knows no more._

Dick screams and screams, scrabbling at his shirt. He tugs it up with a sob as phantom pain flares up in his stomach. He has to stop the bleeding before he dies here alone on the floor. His shaking fingers run over nothing but smooth skin, though, and Dick doesn’t understand what’s happening anymore. He’s caught halfway between past and future. Everything’s blending together, and Dick can only sob into the chair beneath, chest heaving with each hitched breath.

He can’t remember. He’s Dick—but he isn’t. He’s dying—but he isn’t. He’s supposed to be bleeding, he’s supposed to be lying on the floor, just another corpse for Bruce to find and grieve, but he isn’t. And he doesn’t understand why.

Is he real? He needs someone to tell him, needs _Bruce,_ because he just can’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not every update will be as quick as this since I've had most of this chapter written since before I posted chapter 1. Chapter 3 is almost done, but I do want to make sure I'm doing this subject justice, so I'm not promising anything. Feel free to check my tumblr for updates since I do post often there.


	3. Determine Your Reality - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten such an amazing response to this story? On here, ff.net, and tumblr? You are all wonderful and thank you for all of your kind words! 
> 
> Also, last chapter, I used detrimental instead of crucial? I'm not really sure what I was thinking because I definitely know the definition of detrimental, and it's not the same as crucial. So I changed that. Enjoy!

Bruce is just walking out of the meeting when gets a call from _Clark_ of all people. Something heavy settles in Bruce’s stomach, and he knows that whatever this call is about, it’s not going to be good. And if it’s anything less than a global catastrophe, Bruce doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold back from snapping at the one person that Bruce can call his friend.

“Clark,” Bruce greets coolly.

_“Dick is screaming.”_

Bruce’s heart stops in his chest, and he freezes just before he can hit the elevator button. Because—no. He can’t have just heard that right. He’d left Dick all by himself, trusting Alfred when the butler had said that Dick would be okay for a few hours until he got home. And for what? He’s not at Dick’s side when his son needs it the most, and it’s killing him.

The meeting had lasted about an hour, and each second had been agony. He can still hear Dick screaming in his head. Dick had looked _haunted,_ like he’d just seen the world burning right before his eyes, and it had killed Bruce to have to pin Dick to the bed in order to keep the boy from hurting himself. All he’d wanted during the meeting—all he _wants_ is to be there for Dick instead of here, in the city, so far away from him.

 _“Bruce?”_ Clark asks, and he sounds frantic. _“Bruce, please. What’s happening?”_

Bruce doesn’t know. He _doesn’t know._ Dick had been completely fine last night before Bruce had put him to bed. He’d been happy and excited for the weekend—for their next patrol. He’d still been riding the high from solving the Riddler’s puzzles, still bright and smiling and _himself._

And now? Bruce hadn’t seen him smile the entire morning. Not since Bruce had woken up to find Dick sobbing his eyes out, looking like he’d just lost his parents again. He’d look so close to how he’d come to the Manor a couple years ago. So lifeless and unhappy and depressed. But he had also looked _so much worse._ Like he’d just seen a thousand and one impossible, tragic things.

And Bruce’s heart hurts, because he doesn’t understand why. Dick’s had nightmares since the day he had come to live with Bruce, but he’d always found some way to bounce back—usually with a hug or sleeping in Bruce’ bed for a few days. This hadn’t been some nightmare. Bruce knows Dick’s nightmares, and this is something else entirely. And he hates that he doesn’t know. That he can’t help.

So Bruce jabs the elevator button and tells Clark, “I’m handling it—” he’s not, not at all, and he hates it, but he can’t have Clark coming here and seeing him without any composure, “—but I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

And then he hangs up, not giving Clark a chance to speak before he’s walking into the elevator, hitting the button for the parking garage, and dialing the number for the Manor.

 _“Master Bruce,”_ Alfred says after three and a half rings, and Bruce forces himself to breathe. To not demand. To let Alfred speak, because something’s wrong. He can hear it in Alfred’s voice. _“I was about to call you.”_

“What happened.” It’s not a question.

 _“I’m afraid I’m not quite certain, sir,”_ Alfred says, and in the background, he can hear Leslie murmuring. So _something_ happened if Leslie was called over. Bruce waits a moment, expecting Alfred to continue and give him something a little more substantial. _“I was in the kitchen, and Master Dick just started screaming from the other room. There was no cause I could determine.”_

“So it was like this morning?” Bruce asks.

_“It would seem so.”_

Bruce practically sprints to his car as soon as the elevator doors slide open. He unlocks it quickly and slides in, and then he’s driving. He needs to be home. Needs to be with Dick. He tries to take a breath, tries not to jump to conclusions, because in the end, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s happening to Dick.

“Does Leslie know what’s wrong with him?”

Alfred hesitates. _“Dr. Thompkins believes Master Dick to be in seemingly in perfect health.”_

Mind over matter, then. Nothing Bruce hasn’t already guessed at this point, but it still makes Bruce want to pull over and scream incoherently. He’d hoped that this was just Dick feeling under the weather, making the nightmares slightly worse. If this was physical, Bruce would have no trouble calling Leslie and asking what to do. But mental traumas are always tricky, and no one will be able to do anything about it if Dick doesn’t tell them what’s wrong.

And Bruce doesn’t think that Dick will, in all honesty. Dick doesn’t often keep a lot of secrets from Bruce, but what if Dick’s too traumatized by whatever’s going on in his head to _tell_ Bruce. Heaven knows that Bruce didn’t talk to anybody for over a week after his parents died, not even Alfred, and Bruce doesn’t know if he should expect anything different.

But he has to try.

“I’m on my way home,” Bruce tells Alfred. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

_“Very good, sir. I shall see you then.”_

Bruce wants to get this figured out. He wants Dick to be happy again. He just doesn’t know how he’s supposed to make that happen.

* * *

  _Dick dreams of the dark. He dreams of dying, of his_ family _dying. Of being unable to keep his world safe. The dark presses in around him, and he finds it so hard to breathe, so hard to not suffocate on the blackness, and he wonders what he’s done in his life to deserve all of this. To deserve to watch Jason and Wally and Tim and Alfred and Leslie and Roy and Conner and M’gann and all of his friends—he wonders what he’s done to watch them die._

_He’s twenty—he’s eleven—and he’s done things he regrets, but he doesn’t think he’s done anything bad enough to warrant something like the grief that’s dragging him along through the darkness right now._

_Or maybe he has. Maybe he just can’t remember._

* * *

 Dick lurches upright, gasping for breath, and when two sets of hands try to push him to lie down again, Dick fights. He’s—he doesn’t know where he is. Colors blur and each of his breaths catch in his chest, and all he can do is fight, try to make it out alive.

His ears are buzzing, and as he fights off his assailants, Dick thinks he hears someone calling his name, calling out to him. The voice is familiar. Dick _knows_ that voice like he knows how to execute the perfect quadruple flip.

“—awake now, Dick. You’re alright,” Bruce is saying. Dick grips onto Bruce’s T-shirt with both hands and leans forward, right into Bruce’s space. The buzzing stops, and Dick can hear everything with a sharp clarity that he might have questioned at any other point in his life—but for now, he’s just grateful that the memory’s hold on him is fading. He can hear two other voices murmuring quietly to each other across the room, he can hear the springs of the bed as Bruce shifts on the bed, and he can hear the white noise of the portable fan that has sat on his bedside table ever since Bruce had bought it from a street vendor on an unusually hot day in Gotham.

He’s in his bedroom, the one he’s had for a little over two years. Bruce is here, holding onto Dick’s shoulders gently, patiently waiting for Dick gain some semblance of coherency. He’s not twenty, he’s not Nightwing, and he’s not dead. He’s eleven, he’s Robin, and he’s alive. He _has_ to be alive.

“I’m not dead, am I?” Dick whispers into the air, just to make sure, and the room quiets. All but the fan. Dick doesn’t open his eyes, though, and he keeps his tight hold on Bruce’s T-shirt.

“No,” Bruce tells him, and he sounds very confident. Confident enough that Dick lets himself relax and crumple forward into Bruce’s comfort. Bruce doesn’t hesitate to scoop him up into an embrace, and Dick can’t help it when he starts crying. “No, Dick. You’re very much alive.”

“Good,” Dick manages to say despite the tears. It almost sounds like he’s choking. “That’s good.”

Dick just cries for a few minutes, letting everything out. It feels good, despite how much he’s been crying lately. It’s nice to pour out his frustration and his anger and his confusion and all the other emotions that accompany the memories until he’s raw and empty, and Bruce lets him. Bruce runs his fingers through Dick’s hair and rubs his back with a rough hand, and Dick doesn’t think that there’s anywhere else he’d rather be but here in Bruce’s arms.

All of these memories, they show him a future full of pain and suffering—they show Dick how he _dies._ He doesn’t want them. He just wants to be happy, to feel like himself, to grow up with Bruce and Alfred like he did in the memories. Sure, he knows what’s coming, _but so what._

He feels like he’s lost a part of himself, and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to get it back.

“Dick,” Bruce says a while after Dick’s tears subside, and it’s gentle and soft and caring, and Dick doesn’t know if he deserves any of that. “Dick, I think we need to talk.”

“I don’t want to,” Dick tells him. “Bruce, _please._ Please don’t make me.”

Bruce squeezes him tighter, and he doesn’t speak for a while. The room goes back to being silent, and Dick thinks that the other voices, whoever they were, they aren’t in the room anymore. He thinks it’s just him and Bruce, and he’s so glad that no one else is here to watch him break down like this.

Finally, Bruce says, “Dick,” and it’s soft. Gentle in all the ways he usually isn’t. “I know that—”

“You don’t,” Dick cuts him off.

“What?”

Dick’s breathing speeds up, and he almost feels like that blackness is getting ready to rush over him again. Swallow him whole, and he wonders what happens then. Will he still be Dick Grayson? Will he still be himself? Struggling to handle these memories of a future he doesn’t want to remember?

Bruce has _no idea_ what’s going through Dick’s head, and he doesn’t know whether he’s just still reeling from the memories and that dream, or if he’s finally lost it, but Dick _snaps._ He’s doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to feel this way, but the anger rushes up, consumes him, and Dick pushes Bruce away from him, screwing his eyes up against the angry tears.

 _“You don’t know!”_ Dick sobs. “You don’t get it! I’m not—I’m not _you,_ Bruce! I feel like I’m about to lose my mind, and you have no idea what that feels like! _”_

Bruce swallows, and he lowers his voice. “Dick, I don’t know anything because you aren’t telling me.”

“And what happens when I do tell you?!” Dick screams, grabbing the blankets underneath him and _twisting._ He’s angry, he’s sad, he’s scared. Oh god, _he’s so scared._ His chest is tight with so many emotions, and he doesn’t know where to put them, what to do with them. And he hates himself because he’s never wanted to take this out on Bruce, but _Bruce doesn’t get it._ And he shouldn’t say that he does. “Are you going to lock me up in Arkham?! That’s what Batman does to all the crazies, right?! He puts them in Arkham and then he _forgets about them._ They don’t matter anymore!”

“Dick—what—”

But Bruce is at a loss for words, and Dick can barely handle looking at his stupid face at this point. Memories are threatening to overwhelm him again and Dick is having the hardest time pushing them down. He looks down at his shaking fingers, trying to ground himself in the present.

It’s too late, though. He can’t stop it.

_“You just gave it to Jason?!” Dick asks, and he can’t believe it. “Without even asking me?!”_

_Bruce doesn’t say anything, just like he_ never _says anything. Bruce is ruled by paranoia and fear, and Dick hates it sometimes. It’s saved his life, sure, but it’s also ruined his and Bruce’s relationship almost beyond repair. It’s always_ his _rules. Always his way or the high way, and no one else can speak up lest they get shot down by the almighty Bat._

_Dick absolutely hates it sometimes. Still, it’s something he’s learned to live with._

_But this? Giving Robin to Jason without even so much as a word? That’s—that’s—_

No. No no no. Dick can’t get sucked into the memories right now. He needs to stay focused. He’s not mad at Bruce for taking Robin away, because that hasn’t happened, and he doesn’t know if it ever will. He’s angry, he’s _shaking,_ because Bruce is trying to tell him that he knows what it feels like to have his whole life keep flashing in front of his eyes with no way out of the stupid repetitive cycle. Bruce has no idea what it feels like to watch his own death.

Dick is the only one. He’s the only one who has this burden on his shoulders. Bruce thinks he knows? He doesn’t, and Dick thinks that even if he found some way to tell Bruce, he still wouldn’t.

“Dick,” Bruce says, and it sounds like Bruce is getting angry, too. _Good._ Dick doesn’t want to be the only one upset here, even if something in the back of his mind reminds him that he _hates_ when Bruce gets mad at him. It’s never a pleasant experience for either one of them. “I’m not talking about any of the psychopaths in Arkham right now. I’m talking about _you.”_

“You don’t know anything about me!” Dick cries, eyes whipping up to meet Bruce’s intense gaze head-on, but he can’t quite make it. He ends up looking at Bruce’s nose. “You—you don’t know anything!”

Bruce grits his teeth, and Dick can tell that he’s forcing himself not to yell when he says, “You’re not insane, Dick.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I _do,”_ Bruce tells him, putting so much meaning in just two words. Bruce leans forward on the bed to grip Dick’s shoulders, and he shakes Dick slightly, like he’s trying to shake some sense in Dick, but Dick’s right. Bruce is wrong. Dick’s been slowly going insane since he first got these memories. “Dick, _look at me.”_

“I am!” Dick says, but he’s not. He’s crying too hard to see _anything,_ much less Bruce. All he sees through the tears is the blurry blot of where Bruce is supposed to be. He wishes that he could just _stop_ for once. He’s tired of crying, he’s tired of seeing memories, and he’s tired of feeling.

“You’re not.”

“I _am!”_

“You’re _not,”_ Bruce says again, and then Bruce is brushing away the tears as they fall down Dick’s cheeks, and Dick blinks and finally looks Bruce in the eyes. Bruce doesn’t look mad anymore. Bruce looks sad, and it’s _Dick_ that made him feel that way. Dick’s still crying—he doesn’t know how to  stop—but what else can he do when Bruce isn’t going to yell at him? What can he do if Dick’s the only bad guy in this situation? “You’re right, Dick. I don’t know what you’re going through. And unless you tell me, I’m not going to know.”

Bruce just wants to help. He’s not like the person the memories say Bruce will be. He isn’t pushing Dick away only to reach for Jason, instead. It’s _Dick_ that’s pushing _Bruce_ away, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. He wants Bruce to hold him and reassure him that he isn’t crazy. He wants Bruce to _know._

But he can’t say it. He _can’t._ If he says it, will those memories become real? Will everything be the same when he finishes? Will Bruce look at him and tell him that he _is_ sending Dick to Arkham to rot with people like the Joker? Is that how Dick will spend the rest of his life?

So Dick deflates and he whispers thickly, “I _can’t,_ Bruce. I can’t tell you. Not right now,” and he pretends not to see the heartbreak on Bruce’s face as the man scoops him up in his arms again, tucks Dick’s head under his chin, and rocks him back and forth. Through all of this, Dick wonders just what he’s done to deserve Bruce and this unconditional love.

And when Bruce says, “That’s okay, Dick. Just tell me when you’re ready,” it just makes Dick feel that much guiltier.

* * *

 “How is he?” Leslie asks.

Bruce looks up from where he’s leaning back against the headboard, Dick cradled in his lap. Leslie and Alfred are back in the room, having left when Dick had started freaking out before. It had been a good call, Bruce thinks. Dick had barely been able to look at _Bruce_ while they were alone. He doesn’t think that he’d have been able to get a word out of Dick if there had been other people in the room.

Bruce is glad Dick’s even talking to him at all, even if it had been out of anger.

“He’s asleep,” Bruce says lowly. “I think he wore himself out yelling at me.”

Leslie sighs. “I hate to say it, but you might want to find him a psychologist to assess him. Whatever this is, it’s going to be a long road. I have a few I can recommend—”

“No psychologists,” Bruce growls immediately.

“Sir,” Alfred says, looking disapproving and unhappy, “I understand your avoidance of therapists and psychologists, but this does not seem something that we can handle on our own. We may want to listen to Dr. Thompkins’ suggestions if we want to see Master Dick return to his cheerful self.”

Therapists had done nothing for Bruce when he’d been younger, and in his opinion, they probably won’t do much good for Dick, either. Still, Alfred is right to some extent. This is way above all three of their heads, and without forcing Dick to open up, none of them—not even Leslie—know how to help him.

“Let’s give it a couple of days,” Bruce says, hating that he’s even considering this. But for Dick, he would do anything. “If he hasn’t opened up to us by Monday, then I’ll give someone a call.”

Leslie sighs, but she doesn’t look upset. Alfred looks carefully blank, like he’s not prepared to deal with any of this in front of Bruce and Leslie, and Bruce doesn’t fault him. Hell, _Bruce_ isn’t ready to deal with any of this. And if this is tearing apart the three of them, Bruce can only imagine what Dick is going through.

“So three days, then,” Leslie says. “I’m going to head out and get that list together. Give me a call if there’s something I can do, Bruce.”

Bruce nods, and Leslie sweeps out the door, Alfred following her out after a quiet moment of staring forlornly at Dick completely passed out in Bruce’s arms. And then it’s just Bruce and Dick, and Bruce sags back into Dick’s headboard, because he’s never— _never—_ felt this lost in his entire life. His parents’ death had been horrible, tragic, and it had set him on his life path, and it had _hurt_ and never really gone away _._

But Dick is Bruce’s entire world now. And to see his world in so much pain—Bruce is barely able to handle it. He just wishes that could do something more than offer help. He wishes he could take Dick’s pain, save him from it all.

He can’t, though, and nothing has ever hurt more.


	4. Determine Your Reality - Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for panic attacks and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Also, I want to clear this up because I had someone say they were confused about it: Basically, this is au after season 2, and whatever season 3 has in store for us, this story won't follow it. So, I had to come up with a plausible reason for Dick getting memories from the future--which you will find out later exactly how--so Dick remembers things from a year later after season 2 ended. Hope that clears some things up for anyone who was wondering!

Dinner is a quiet affair. Where usually Dick would be chatting away about anything and everything, Dick finds himself at a loss for words. He still feels guilty for pushing Bruce away when all the man was trying to do was help, but Dick can’t. He _can’t._

He stabs a piece of broccoli with his fork and shoves it into his mouth, keeping his eyes down. Bruce doesn’t say anything, either, and Alfred stands at the edge of the room—he gives a whole new meaning to seen, not heard. All of it feels so wrong to Dick.

Dick’s a chatterbox. It’s practically in his DNA to be loud and hyper and cheerful, just like it’s in Bruce’s to be a big brooding sourpuss when he’s stressed, and Dick _likes_ being that way. It’s part of who he is.

But right now, Dick doesn’t feel talkative or energetic or happy. He feels weighed down with overwhelming emotions and memories. He doesn’t feel like _Dick._

Not to mention there’s another thing bothering him.

He’d forgotten for a little while why he’d even broken down earlier in the library. But it comes back to him at inopportune moments. Dick will be fine and then the memories _crash_ into him. He’d already watched? his own death a second, third, fourth time, and even hours after his uncomfortable nap cradled in Bruce’s arms, it seems like it isn’t going to be stopping anytime soon.

Dick picks up the knife to cut his chicken—

 _The knife glints in the light as Savage lifts it high above his head. And then it’s plunging down to sink into Dick’s stomach, and the life is_ bleeding _out of him._

—and puts it back down again, his stomach sinking and a shiver crawling down his spine. He pushes his plate away and doesn’t look at either Bruce or Alfred as he does it. He can feel their frowns, but he can’t do this. _Why_ can’t he do this? Why isn’t he strong enough for this when the memories whisper to him that he _has_ to be strong enough to remember his entire twenty years of trauma.

Some part of him has been Robin and Nightwing and _Batman_ , and Dick finds that he can’t even imagine putting on a mask without throwing up.

Oh god, he just wants to feel like himself. He wants to be normal. He’s felt trapped all day, like he’s suffocating.

“Are you finished with your dinner, Master Dick?” Alfred says, looking at the plate Dick shoved away in something like concern.

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I’m done.”

Bruce clears his throat, and when Dick looks up, he’s—he doesn’t look like he’s about to call for Leslie again so soon, but it’s a very near thing. Dick can see the contemplation in his eyes. “You haven’t eaten all day. Are you sure you can’t finish just a few more bites?”

_Savage’s laughter rings in his ears, and his lips quirk up in a smile as he looks down at Dick.“You are a perfect candidate,” Savage tells him, and Dick feels the knife sinking into his stomach, the stench of blood and death in the air._

Dick looks at the wonderful dinner Alfred’s cooked, and he doesn’t think he can eat another bite without throwing up. “I’m full,” Dick says carefully. “Can I be excused?”

Bruce sighs as he sets his own fork down and places a hand over his eyes. “Dick, you can’t do this to yourself,” Bruce tells him, and Dick does _not_ want to have this conversation right now. “You can’t afford to lose any weight.”

Dick flinches and it’s full-bodied. He’d forgotten about that. Since Dick isn’t adopted, he still has to worry about social workers. The problem is that Dick’s an acrobat. He’s not like Bruce who is muscled and _large_. He’s small for his age. He’s _always_ been, but it’s a problem for his social worker, who thinks that Bruce and Alfred aren’t feeding him enough. And Dick hasn’t eaten the whole day, so—

Not eating—losing weight—it could cause a lot of problems. Dick doesn’t want that. But he also doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach the meal, so he tries for, “I’ll eat tomorrow at breakfast.”

Bruce looks like he has something to say to _that,_ but Alfred stops him, thankfully. “Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred says, and Dick slumps in relief. They’re babying him, but Dick—he just can’t. “Will you be turning in for the night, then?”

Dick bites his lip, thinking about that. Bruce is going to go on patrol tonight, Dick doesn’t have a single doubt about that. The question is whether Dick will go with him.

“I don’t know,” Dick says honestly.

“You’re not going,” Bruce interjects. Dick blinks at him, and actually, so does Alfred. Because—

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not going out tonight,” Bruce repeats, his gaze firm and his face set in stone. “This morning you collapsed in the library. There’s no way I’m going to let you out as Robin when you can relapse like that.”

“Then I don’t want you to go, either.”

The words—they’re said in anger, with a snippy tone, and their out of Dick’s mouth before he can really register that he’s the one saying them. But once they’re out in the air, Dick finds that he really _, really_ doesn’t want Bruce to go without him. At least not tonight. There’s still that part of him that keep seeing himself die, seeing himself _lose,_ and Dick doesn’t want to be in the Cave talking to Bruce through the comms. He doesn’t want to feel alone.

The problem in all of this is that Dick’s not strong enough to be Robin right now. As long as he’s so easily caught up in these memories, he _can’t_ be Robin. Bruce is right. What if they’re on patrol and Dick is triggered and falls into another memory? What if Bruce gets hurt because of it? He can’t risk that. He can’t be Robin.

And maybe that’s what’s so different. With how messed up his head is, Dick _isn’t_ just Robin, not anymore. He remembers the circus, and Robin, and Nightwing, and Batman—all parts of a Dick Grayson no one’s supposed to know, yet. And maybe that’s why he can’t be normal anymore.

Still, whatever mask he’s wearing, Dick can’t stand to think of Bruce alone out there while he’s stuck at home. What if—what if Dick gets trapped in the memories again? Bruce has seemed to be the only one who has managed to pull Dick from his nightmare of a reality right now, and Dick doesn’t want Bruce to leave again.

“Dick,” Bruce says slowly, wide-eyed with disbelief, “I can’t just _not_ go on patrol. I missed Tuesday for your Open House, and I missed Sunday because of a Justice League mission. If this keeps up, things will get out of control.”

“Just one night!” Dick pleads, and he’s _shaking_ with how much he just wants Bruce to _listen to him. Why can’t he ever just listen!_ Dick stands from his chair and spread his hands over the tablecloth, trying to find some way to ground himself in the present. “Please, Bruce! It’ll be just—just one! I—just—I—”

“Dick,” Bruce says, and he’s standing up from his own chair, but it’s cautious and Bruce looks way too wound up to be standing up in anger. He looks like he’s ready to pounce and he catches Dick right when Dick’s knees give out from underneath him. Dick latches on immediately, koala-ing to Bruce the best he can. “Hey, hey. You need to breathe.”

Dick’s not crying, but he thinks that probably has more to do with the way his chest is tightening in a familiar way than any emotions he’s feeling. He can’t draw in any air, and there’s this feeling of sinking, even as Bruce murmurs lowly to him, rubs his back and helps Dick ride this out.

Dick thinks that he’s losing this battle. He’s playing the game without even knowing the rules, and he’s so terribly losing, and there’s nothing he can do. There isn’t a rule book to help him. There’s _nothing._

Whatever this is, he’s losing.

It’s like water rushing in, and he’s stuck underneath the waves, fingertips just about to reach the surface. And just as he’s about to push through to the air, the memories pull him back down another foot, and it’s another battle to try and reach the surface again.

But he can’t hold his breath forever.

After a few moments, Dick’s lungs stop seizing up on him, and Dick slumps down exhaustedly into Bruce’s embrace. It’s becoming a pattern, but Dick _can’t help it._ He can’t, can’t, _can’t._

Bruce lets out a heavy breath and murmurs, “You okay?”

Dick shakes his head and buries it into Bruce’s shoulder. He hasn’t been okay since he’d first gotten these memories last night. He feels like he keeps trying to take a step forward, and instead he’s being pushed ten steps back and then over the edge of a cliff. It’s so frustrating that he can’t just—just _be okay._

But he’s not. He’s sad, and angry, and worried, and scared, and so many other things, and none of it is fitting. He’s trying to smoosh all of these emotions down before they swallow him whole, but they keep springing up on him when he least expects it, and he wishes he could do something about it. He wishes _Bruce_ could do something about it.

And maybe that’s what Dick’s next words are, “I’ll tell you.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a long time. The room isn’t silent—Dick can hear Alfred shuffling around the table, probably straightening up their meal in order to keep himself distracted—but the longer Bruce goes without saying anything, the more Dick wants to rescind his words and pretend he never said them.

But finally, _finally,_ Bruce says, “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” Dick says immediately, and he doesn’t think that he’s lying. He doesn’t want to be trapped inside his own head anymore. Screw making it a reality, screw Bruce sending him to Arkham. This is Dick’s reality now, whether he wants it or not, and he can’t do this alone. “I do. I’m tired now, though.”

“Let’s get you in bed,” Bruce says, and it rumbles deep and warm in his chest.

Dick squeezes tighter. He has to know. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll stay,” Bruce breathes, and it sounds like a promise. “I’ll stay, Dick.”

* * *

Bruce runs a hand down his face. Dick is curled up under the covers next to him, sleeping restlessly, but considering how much Dick had gotten the night before and the emotional exhaustion he has to be dealing with, Bruce is lucky Dick’s sleeping at all.

“Sir?” Alfred says, knocking on the open door. When Bruce gestures for him to come in, he does. His posture is stiff, but Bruce knows better than to think that Alfred isn’t just as worried for Dick as he is. Alfred just shows his concern in different ways. Alfred shoots him a skeptical look. “Are you really planning on staying in tonight, Master Bruce?”

“Yes,” is Bruce’s immediate answer. The look on Dick’s face when he’d _pleaded_ for Bruce to stay in, it had been than Bruce could bear. Bruce will give up another night of patrol for Dick, and he doesn’t think he’ll regret it. “He needs me.”

“That he does,” Alfred says. “You two will speak when he wakes, then?”

“I suppose.”

Secretly, though, Bruce isn’t sure that this is the best option. Bruce isn’t good with talking about emotions on a good day, and he’d almost had his own panic attack when Dick’s started at the dinner table. Bruce is too attached to this, and he doesn’t know if he wants to hear whatever Dick has to tell him.

Well, yes he does. There’s nothing Bruce wants more than to know what Dick is going through and find a way to help him through it. This is his _kid,_ and it isn’t like Bruce isn’t going to help him however he can.

But there’s also that feeling—that complete and utterly heart-stopping fear that Bruce is the wrong person to help Dick, right now. That he’s not going to be enough to bring Dick back from whatever edge he’s teetering on. He’s afraid he’ll be the tipping point of whatever precarious balance has managed to find throughout the day, and he doesn’t know if Dick’s going to be tipping forwards or backwards, and _it hurts._ He hates to admit it, even to himself, but it hurts that he probably can’t be whatever support Dick needs him to be.

But maybe Bruce can hold Dick’s hand, at the least. The kid is probably the most kinesthetic person Bruce has ever met, and if Dick reaches for him, Bruce isn’t going to refuse him—whether it’s figuratively or literally.

“Something else on your mind, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, an eyebrow raised and that knowing look on his face. Bruce sighs in answer and Alfred nods. “Ah. So you noticed it, too.”

“It’s hard not to,” Bruce manages to get out.

He looks over at the boy— _his_ boy—sleeping in his bed, and sometimes he can’t believe that Dick actually came home with him that day. In the early days, Bruce knows that he wasn’t the best guardian, but Dick had somehow punched his way through Bruce’s defenses and wormed his way into a space in Bruce’s heart, and now Dick is wounded, someway, somehow. Right underneath Bruce’s nose.

“Something hurt him,” Bruce says, because he needs to make sure that he isn’t the only one who sees this.

“Trauma,” Alfred agrees solemnly.

“PTSD,” Bruce clarifies, and then he shakes his head, because it doesn’t add up. Something, somewhere, doesn’t add up. “The symptoms may match,” he says slowly, “but what was the cause? He just barely turned eleven, and the last major case was with the Riddler. It just seems so random.”

“And yet these things rarely are.”

Bruce looks over Alfred, really looks at him, and there’s a weariness that Bruce hasn’t seen since before Dick had moved into the manor. The butler seems tired as he flits around the room, straightening things that don’t actually need to be straightened, dusting lamps that Bruce is sure Alfred dusted yesterday. This is affecting all of them, even if it’s mostly on Dick’s small shoulders, and they need to get past this. Bruce needs to get to the root.

But _it doesn’t make sense._ A nightmare? A relapse? Dick had had PTSD and depression when he’d first come to the manor, but after a few days, his natural curiosity and cheerfulness had taken over. And even in the first days, Dick had only been somewhat subdued.

Now, though. Now Bruce fears the worst for Dick. He’d come into Bruce’s bedroom so early this morning, face pale and stricken, and he’d looked _haunted._ It makes Bruce shiver just thinking about it. His first thought when Dick had jumped into his arms was that Dick had just watched another person die, but that didn’t make sense.

Nothing had made sense. Bruce had tried to fit Dick’s behavior into a timeline, into scenario after scenario, and all he could come up with was that Dick had PTSD, and that it was aggressive.

The symptoms are all there. The depression, the hostility, the anxiety, the mistrust, the lack of energy. And this morning Dick had barely responded to Bruce, looking so apathetic and detached from the world. Bruce never wants to see such a look on the boy’s face again.

But out of all of those symptoms, the one that takes the cake are the flashbacks. It’s obvious, most of the time. Dick will stare into space, and he won’t respond or react to anyone calling his name. And then when he comes out of them, he’ll get violent or he won’t remember exactly where he is.

And—

_“I’m not dead, am I?”_

God, what has his child seen to make him say something like that? To be unable to distinguish between reality and flashback—or dream. Or _whatever_ they are. Bruce can’t do anything about them, though. Nothing other than bring Dick out of them to the best of his ability, and pray that Dick is still intact as he emerges.

It’s agonizing. _Torture_ , really.

Bruce drags a hand down his face and just presses it to his mouth for a moment. There isn’t anything to do now that Dick is asleep. Hopefully, he’ll stay that way for the entire night, but Bruce has a sinking feeling that they’re both in for the ride of their lives.

* * *

_They don’t get there in time. And even if they had, Dick doesn’t think it would have made even a bit of a difference. There had been no other way, and Dick recognizes that. It hurts, just like it had hurt to watch his parents fall to their deaths, or to hear that Jason was dead because—_

_Anyways. It’s like a knife carving out his heart, and Dick hates that he can’t even show how much agony he’s in. Not when Barry and Artemis both look like their world has just shattered. Dick’s has shattered, too, but he’s accepted it. He hates this._

_They need to leave. Some part of Dick’s brain that’s always functioning, that never stops looking at a situation and says, “you’ve already been pushed past your breaking point too many times and this is no different.” The part that says to move on and keep walking. It tells him that they need to get out of here before they all freeze to death._

_Dick quietly ushers them into the bioship, and it’s quiet on the way back up to the Watchtower. It’s up to Dick—Mr. Team Leader that led Kaldur to fake defection and Artemis to fake death and Wally to_ actual _death—to break the news to the others._

_Ding dong. Wally’s dead. And it’s all Dick’s fault._

_He goes from sitting in the bioship, feeling the angry stares of his comrades that he’s not quite sure isn’t his imagination, to standing in his apartment. And it’s only then, when he’s alone, in a dark, old, crummy apartment, that Dick lets himself fall apart._

_He still has to give Batman his report. His still has to deal with the aftermath of the invasion. He still has to be a leader. But—_

_Wally’s dead. This whole thing—the plan that was supposed to save the world with as few risks as possible—it’s backfired on Dick. Now instead of mourning someone who had just been undercover, everybody’s mourning Dick’s best friend, who isn’t coming back. Wally’s dead, and it’s Dick’s fault._

_He doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to live with himself now. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t really want to._

_And then—Dick’s not in his apartment, he’s thirteen again, sitting in a chair across from Black Canary, about to spill his darkest feelings about the nightmare of a training exercise. They’re alone. The others are probably somewhere in the mountain, still caught up in their own heads, their own emotions, their own traumas. Conner’s somewhere else, though, caught up in his anger._ Only _his anger. Dick would be worried if he could, but he’s having a hard time dealing with his own emotions._

_“Dick,” Dinah says, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Dick slump forward, his hands clasped between his legs as he tries to hold himself together. “I know you’re hurting—”_

_“Hurting?” Dick says, his voice wavering with the amount of pressure behind his eyes. “Try traumatized. I finally become leader and wind up sending all of my friends to their_ deaths.” _He looks down at the floor and tries desperately to keep his composure, but it’s just as hard as ever._

_There’s this new feeling whelming up inside him, and Dick hates it. It’s bitterness. It’s resentment. It’s hatred. And the worst part is that it isn’t just aimed at himself. He wishes he can take all of the blame on himself. That would be a lot easier, but these feelings. Their aimed at himself, but they’re also aimed at—_

_“I know I did what I had to,” Dick tells Dinah, just in order to not think about where that train of that had been going, “but I hated it. When we started this team, I was desperate to be in charge. Well, not anymore.”_

_Dick pauses, takes a steadying breath. Then he takes another, and that one is shakier than the last, and Dick fears he’s about to fall apart after all of this. He’d watched his friends die, he’d lead his other friends onto a suicide mission. Dick knows that he’s bound to feel horrible and sad and angry and scared after something like that. He_ knows _that. But—_

_“And that’s not even the worst of it,” Dick admits. The feelings are back. He can’t push them away. He looks up to meet Dinah’s eyes. “Y-you can’t tell Batman.”_

_“Nothing leaves this room,” she tells him._

_“I always wanted—expected—to grow up and-and become him. And the hero bit? I’m still all in. But.” Dinah has this look in her eye, like she wants to stand up and give him a hug. Dick has known her for almost his whole career as Robin. She’s watched him grow up. But she stays where she is. Dick swallows and keeps going. If he stops now, he won’t ever start again, he thinks. “That thing inside of him. Th-that_ thing _that drives him to sacrifice_ everything _for the sake of his mission—that’s not me. I-I don’t want to be_ the _Batman anymore.”_

_He fears what will become of him if he does._

_And when he does become Batman, it’s only because he has to, and he’s afraid that that mission—the one from over five years ago—is the reason he’s doing this now. It has to be why he’s sitting on the edge of a rooftop in the room, weighed down with cowl and cape, Tim wearing his colors beside him._

_Gotham needs Batman, and the Team needs a leader. Dick’s more than terrified he’s already screwed up both. He doesn’t want to be Batman, and he doesn’t want to lead his friends to their deaths, but it doesn’t look like he has any choice anymore._

* * *

Dick wakes to darkness, and for a moment, he’s confused. That’s not his ceiling. He—he should be in the Cave, he thinks, or his bedroom at the manor, but that’s Bruce’s ceiling.

His breath hitches in his chest as the events of the entire day come rushing back to him, and it’s all Dick can do to summon the energy to roll over and curl up next to Bruce. He doesn’t want to dream anymore. He doesn’t—it’s too much. So he snuggles closer to Bruce’s warmth next to him, and just tries not to drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the chapters have titles now! I'm going to be doing this story in arcs because there is so much I want to write for this au. My god is there so much. I've got almost 15,000 words written in a separate document because I'm horrible at waiting until I get to that specific part.
> 
> Anyways, each arc will be anywhere from 4-7 chapters (I'm estimating) and this first one I'm predicating will have two more chapters? Don't hold me to that, but it's what I'm predicating right now based on what I have plan.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for all of your support!


	5. Determine Your Reality - Part 5

“I thought you said you wanted to do this,” Bruce says, his brows furrowed in what Dick knows to be concern, but others might interpret as frustration or anger. It takes years of practice to nail Bruce’s emotions—Dick’s _had_ practice, of course, but he’s not sure it completely counts—and Dick tries not to wince at the very blunt statement.

Dick says, “I did—I mean, I do. It’s just—”

Just what? Too hard? He’s already been over every possible outcome that could result from telling Bruce. The worst, the best, he’s pretty sure he knows them all. He’s played it out in his head, analyzed the situation. Just like Bruce taught him to do. He’s going to do this. He _has_ to. Only—

It’s hard to get the words out. Usually, he has no problem talking—well, he hadn’t before, buut now it’s impossible to even start at this point.

Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “I’ll wait.”

“It’s—” Dick cuts himself off again, biting his lip. He’s so _frustrated._ He just wants this moment over with. He wants Bruce to _know._ “It’s kind of complicated.”

“Complicated how?

“I…don’t really know how to put it into words,” Dick admits.

He rubs his forehead. His brain is full of these—these _memories,_ he can say, but will Bruce understand everything just by saying that? He can say, _Bruce, I remember the future. I remember how I died,_ but he doesn’t think that will really work, either. It’s too blunt. Dick swallows the lump in his throat and keeps his gaze on the bed.

This is _hard._ He hadn’t expected it to be easy, but he hasn’t felt this helpless with words since he was five, still tripping over the stilted English syllable of half the circus’ mother language. In fact, he _loves_ words, even if he doesn’t pick them apart the way he used to—

Dick stops, backtracking on that train of thought, because there’s something about it that doesn’t seem quite right. _Seven years old, loving words, and—_ oh. That’s not right, is it? Yes, Dick is fascinated with English, sometimes warping and twisting them around until Alfred gets that displeased grimace on his face, but—he hasn’t stopped. He’d just asked Bruce last week why it’s _up_ set and not _down_ set when you’re feeling sad or discontented—or down. Doesn’t make much sense.

But, he hasn’t stopped. He _will,_ when things get hard—

_“So,” Jason says, dropping down next to him. “I heard something from the Replacement this morning that has me questioning my entire reality.” He pauses, looking over at Dick, like he’s expecting Dick to say something, but Dick’s busy. The world’s gone to hell and he doesn’t have a lot of time to spare on small talk. “You listenin’, Goldie?”_

_“Yes,” Dick says, but he doesn’t spare Jason more than a glance before he’s looking back at his laptop, trying to figure out their next step. It’ll have to be a big one, because right now they’re getting stomped on._

_Jason hums, like he doesn’t quite believe Dick, but he won’t call him out on it. Dick’s grateful for that. “You see,” Jason continues, “I was making a joke about ‘feeling the aster’ and our little Timmy had no idea what I was talking about.”_

_“What’s your point,” Dick sighs._

_“My point,” Jason says, sitting up straighter and angrier, which is all he seems to be nowadays, “is that you’ve changed. You don’t do those little word thingies that annoyed me so goddamn much.”_

_Dick slams his laptop shut, his shoulders tense. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jason. I’m sorry I had to grow up and smell the roses? I’m sorry that I’ve been too distracted with saving the world to cater to_ your _specific needs? I’m sorry I’m not like how you remember me?”_

_“You don’t smile anymore,” Jason tells him, and his voice is quiet and even._

_“There’s not much reason_ to _smile,” Dick says angrily. “I’ve been mourning you and Wally and I’ve been kicked down so many times, I’m surprising myself each time I get up again. I just—I don’t know what you want from me.”_

_Jason doesn’t seem to know, either, because he doesn’t say anything. They just sit there in their quiet, basking in each other’s presence. Yes, Dick had mourned Jason. Yes, Dick doesn’t smile much anymore. But at least Jason’s here now._

There are fingers snapping in front of Dick’s face, and he flinches backwards. And then he realizes what just happened to him, and things slide into place.

Bruce is frowning at him as he lowers his arm, and Dick’s heart is hammering in his chest. He doesn’t know what it had looked like to Bruce, but he hopes that it hadn’t been totally and completely obvious that he hadn’t exactly been present for the moment. He’s never had one that long in front of other people—at least, not while being able to stay coherent at the end of it.

“Sorry,” Dick says, because Bruce is still eyeing him. “That’s—it happens sometimes, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“It didn’t,” Bruce tells him. “Not before.”

“It started two nights ago,” Dick starts—and he pretends like he’s presenting a case. Present the evidence, the facts, and it might be easier for Bruce to swallow. It takes the pressure off somehow. Like he’s channeling Robin, and maybe a little of Nightwing and Batman, too. It makes this a bit easier to try to distance himself from the situation. Use the mask.

Still, he’s not like the _other_ from the memories. He can’t quite filter things as well as the whispers tell him to, so he’s sure that this isn’t going to be perfect. There’s still a chance of just completely breaking down.

“What’s ‘it?’” Bruce asks, his voice quiet. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than just that.”

“Um.” Dick takes a deep breath, and he tries something that he’s been thinking about for a few minutes now. It’s from _his_ memories, and he thinks this might be his best shot of explaining all of this. “Do you, uh, remember when we were marathoning Star Wars? When you were too sick to get out of bed?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything more than a simple, “Yes.”

“Do you remember what you said? After we finished the last one?” Dick asks.

“’I wish I could still watch these with the same curiosity I had when I’d first seen them,’” Bruce quotes, and it’s word for word. Perfect. Even though Bruce had been down with a bad case of the flu at the time and had barely been able to string together a coherent sentence for almost two days.

“And after you said, ‘The ending is dampened a little when you already know what happens,’ when I said that I wanted to watch Star Wars every movie night for the rest of the year,” Dick says, leaning forward a bit. Because _this_ part is the part that will determine if Dick’s labeled as insane. “Well, imagine our life is Star Wars.”

Bruce’s lips twitch. “Our life is _not_ Star Wars.”

“It’s imaginary,” and Dick’s starting to get nervous now, his stomach rolling and his words coming out with barely a thought about how they’ll sound. “Please use what little you have and pretend that our life is Star Wars.”

Bruce stares at him a moment, assessing him, and Dick can almost see the gears turning, trying to figure out where Dick is taking this. “Okay,” Bruce concedes, and he sounds honest and accepting, and Dick takes that as a good a sign as any. “Our life is Star Wars.”

Dick tries not to shake. He spreads his hands over the duvet underneath him, trying to ground himself somehow before Bruce truly understands what’s happening here, right underneath his nose.

“Alright, so it’s like this,” Dick whispers, and his voice has a slight tremble to it that he’s not sure how to rid himself of. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’s like I’ve—like our life is Star Wars, except I’ve already seen how it ends, and it’s not good. Lots of people die, and it keeps, uh, keeps replaying over for me. Except instead of seeing it all at once, I’m watching it all out of order, and it gets confusing. But I still—the ending’s been spoiled for me.”

Bruce is quiet for a long time. Too long. And Dick can’t make himself look up at Bruce. He’s not even sure his analogy even made any sense. He’s still clutching the blankets underneath him, but he’s proud that he’s managed not to tremble any further than that. Even though it feels like he’s waiting for a death sentence to drop down on his shoulders—or. Another one.

“I think,” Bruce says slowly, after a long while, and when Dick glances up, his eyes are steady and intense, “that you’re going to have to start at the beginning.”

* * *

It takes a couple tries, but Dick keeps at it. This is important, and he summons whatever strength he can from himself and from the _other_. He can do this. He has to.

“I have these memories in my head. Of the future,” Dick says. “I’ve seen a lot of things that haven’t happened, but seem like they _could_ happen. I know things that I shouldn’t. And the memories are really intense. They’re—they’re really scary.”

Dick’s voice breaks at the end of it, and yeah. He’s failed at distancing himself. The tears are right there. His eyes burn. He’s standing right at the edge of _something,_ and Dick doesn’t want to look down in case he sees what he’s brought upon himself. He just hopes it’s not a death drop from one life where’s he happy, to another where he’s stuck in Arkham because he’s insane.

“Dick,” Bruce says, and his voice is strained. Dick squeezes his eyes shut. “That’s not possible.”

“Clark’s an alien,” Dick tells him. His breathing picks up slightly and his eyes open in desperation, and he’s _this_ close to breaking down. He continues. It’s important, he reminds himself. It’s important, and he needs Bruce to believe him. “Wally and Barry an run like a bajillion miles an hour. J’onn is an alien. Jason _died and came back to—”_

No. He hadn’t. Because Jason hasn’t died yet.

He remembers—

_“I know it’s hard,” Bruce tells him, hugging Dick to his chest, “but you can’t blame yourself. You weren’t even there.”_

_“But I should’ve been,” Dick sobs. “He asked me—I should have gone with him!”_

Jason died. But then—

_“Jason’s dead,” Bruce says. There’s grief in his face, but it’s not reflected in his voice, and Dick doesn’t understand what’s happening anymore. Jason’s dead? But he’d just seen Jason last week, working with Roy on some adventure. Now he’s dead? “He was taken out on Darkseid’s orders.”_

_“This doesn’t make any sense,” Dick says, pushing away his own grief, because it’s been stacking up for a while now, and he doesn’t have time to deal with it. Jason, Wally, Barry, Kaldur, Jaime, Artemis, Tim, and now Jason again. And Dick’s already mourned Jason once, and he doesn’t think he can keep doing this. So he pushes it all away. “Why target Red Hood? He’s not a hero.”_

_“Ra’s Al Ghul told Darkseid and Vandal Savage about his involvement with us,” Bruce says after a moment. He’s staring at Dick like he’s waiting for another break down. But Dick’s run out of tears. He doesn’t have any more time or capacity to grieve for anybody else. He’ll grieve when this is all over. Either that, or he’ll die, and he knows which one is more likely._

_“We’re abandoning the Cave,” Bruce says. “Talia and Ra’s both know where everything is, so we’ll use the newest Safe House in the sewers and hide out there until we can regroup.”_

_Fine. It’s not like half his childhood wasn’t spent in this place. He’ll get over it._

_“I’ll go start packing,” Dick tells him, because there’s nothing more to say. It’s necessary to stop Vandal Savage. To stop the Light. To stop Darkseid. It’s necessary, but hell, he wishes it wasn’t._

Dick brings his hands up to cover his face and tries to just _breathe._

It’s hard to switch between the him and the memories and _him._ Dick Grayson, eleven-year-old acrobat living with these things in his head, playing like a movie whenever the think it’s most convenient. He feels like each memory unwinds him, undoes him just a little but more each time they take over.

Those memories, he’s so _apathetic_. He never wants to be that person, the one who had watched his friends and family die around him and then died himself, but he’s not sure he really has a choice at this point.

He understands what’s happening. He _does._ But it’s hard to accept, to swallow down the fact the memories are trying to swallow him. He keeps thinking that things have happened when they haven’t, like when he’d thought he’d stopped messing with words, or when he’d thought Jason had already died and come back to life, when he knows that Jason is probably nine-years-old right now, living in Crime Alley without a single clue how messed up life will get.

And if this is going to keep happening, if this is going to get _worse,_ Dick doesn’t know if he’s still going to come out as _him_ at the end of it.

“Dick?” Bruce asks, his voice a touch gentler, and there are hands pulling his own away from his face, and Dick can only look up at Bruce with tears in his eyes. He doesn’t want to fade away and become someone else. He doesn’t want these memories to take him over.

So Bruce has to believe him. He _has_ to.

“I’m not lying,” Dick tells Bruce, twisting his hands so that he’s clutching Bruce’ wrist tightly. Not enough to hurt—though the memories tell him how to, even without the strength to back it up—but enough to force stubborn, butt-headed Bruce Wayne to consider him. _“Please,_ Bruce. You know I’m not! I would never make something like this up!”

“I know you’re telling me what you think is true,” Bruce says, “but we have no idea to know for sure.”

It’s not a _I think you’re insane,_ so Dick takes it. There sounds like there’s more than just that, though, so Dick waits for whatever the verdict will be. He doesn’t know how to convince Bruce any more than he already has. For all that he _knows_ now, there’s so much more that he doesn’t, and he knows that this is screwing him up big time.

He feels—skewed. Off track. Not himself. It’s not a feeling he likes.

Bruce finally sighs and says, “Dick, I think that what you’re saying is impossible, but if there’s anything that I’ve learned from working with the Justice League, and being with _you,_ things that are impossible, don’t always stay that way.

“When you came to the Manor,” Bruce tells him, an intensity in his eyes that Dick can’t look away from,, “I thought that you would turn out like me. Refuse to accept help, refuse to be a child. But you proved me wrong. You were this happy child who was willing to open your heart up again, even right after your parents died. And then you did what Alfred had been trying to do for years. You made _me_ happy.”

Dick can’t see. There are tears blurring his eyes, and he lets go of Bruce’s wrists to wipe at them. He’s never—not in his own or the memories— _ever_ heard Bruce say anything like that. Sometimes Dick still felt like some burden Bruce had taken pity on. But to hear that? To hear that he makes Bruce happy just by being who he is so impossibly heart-warming.

And so impossibly sad.

“I’m sorry,” Dick cries. “Sorry.”

Bruce leans forward and helps wipe the tears from his cheeks, and this time Dick doesn’t mind. Not like he had yesterday. “There’s nothing to be sorry _for,_ kiddo. I don’t understand what you’re going through, but I believe what you’re saying. I believe you.”

“But,” and Dick can barely get the words out now, he’s crying so hard. “But, _Bruce._ You said I made you happy b-because I’m me, but what if these memories mean I’m not _me_ anymore! I—I—”

“Come here,” Bruce tells him, and Dick wastes no time settling in Bruce’s lap. Bruce tucks Dick’s head under his chin and rocks him back and forth. Bruce has been so touchy these past few days, and Dick knows that that’s probably only because of how weird Dick’s been acting, but it helps. It feels like warmth and love and acceptance wrapped up in Bruce’s arms, and Dick never wants to be let go again. As long as he can keep feeling like this.

“I love you, Bruce,” Dick says, eyes still burning.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He’s never responded before when Dick’s said it, but Dick knows. This time, however, Bruce clears his throat. “Dick. Hey, kiddo, I’m going to say something, and I just want you to listen for a minute, okay?”

Dick nods, and Bruce takes a deep breath.

“Whatever’s happening to you,” Bruce starts, whispering, “we’ll figure it out. You’re my partner, and partners don’t leave each other hanging, right? And just because you have these…memories. It doesn’t mean that you aren’t you, Dick. It just means that you’ve seen a lot more than other kids your age. That’s—going to be scary, but remember that you have me and Alfred to help you.”

“Sometimes I get stuck in them,” Dick admits, keeping his voice quiet. “And some of them—Bruce.” Dick’s trying not to cry again, but he feels like his heart is about to beat right out of his chest. He can’t _breathe—_

_Savage’s eyes glint down at him, and the blade sinks into his stomach—_

“Bruce, I remember dying.”

And like a flip has been switched, Bruce stills, the room goes completely quiet, and there’s a tenseness in the air that hadn’t been there before. Dick’s own body has practically shut down on him, like the shock of saying the words out loud, of admitting them and making them real, has thrown Dick into some kind of delayed shock.

Which can’t be right, because he’d already _been_ in shock over this. He’d had three panic attacks yesterday, he’d sobbed his eyes out, _he’d accepted that this is real._ But this doesn’t make sense, because it’s all crashing down on him again. Bruce knows, and _this is real._ Whatever’s happening to him, this is Dick’s reality. Watching himself die over and over again and living with the knowledge that he fails when the entire world is at stake.

“I’m not going to let that happen” Bruce says, and Dick jumps, twisting around to look at Bruce’s determined scowl with wide eyes.

“What?” Dick can’t help but ask. “What do you—What are you talking about?”

“You said you remember dying,” Bruce says, and it’s calm, but there’s _anger-rage-betrayal-determination-fear_ in his eyes, and there’s no talking him down from the decision that he’s already made. A decision Dick doesn’t exactly understand. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“How are you going to stop it?” Dick asks, too bewildered, to _awed,_ to even think about what the repercussions of this could be.

“I’ll take care of it,” Bruce promises, and Dick feels the tension drain out of his shoulders and make way for relief, because that’s enough for Dick. “And I’ll take care of you, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Dick nods numbly. “Okay.”

* * *

A few hours later, Dick and Bruce are lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Dick’s, well, he’s worn out. He’d started at the beginning, telling Bruce everything that had happened, everything that he’d seen in the memories, and Bruce had listened. Getting through his death had taken a while, and Dick had had to stop more than once.

But, finally, everything is out in the open, and Dick feels exhausted.

But he also feels—better. Not okay, not by any means, but better than he had before. He thinks it’s because it’s Bruce. Bruce is Batman, and he’s one of the most capable people Dick has met when it comes to extraordinary things. He’d helped form the _Justice_ _League_ for goodness sakes. Bruce knows now, and they’ll figure this out. Together.

He feels silly, though. For thinking that Bruce would be anything less than accepting. Even if Bruce hadn’t believed him, why would Dick think that Bruce would ship him off to Arkham? A prison? No, if anything, Bruce probably would have had his head checked at League Headquarters by the Martian Manhunter or those high-tech machines. Bruce wouldn’t have sent him away.

Bruce heaves a sigh. “How are you feeling?”

Dick shrugs, even though he knows Bruce can’t see him in their positions. “Not as bad as before. It helps that it’s not just in my head anymore.”

“I think we could do with some TV,” Bruce says, pushing himself into a sitting position and turning to Dick. “Star Wars?”

“Sure,” Dick says, because it’s easier to agree than argue for something else when he feels so…drained. “Can we watch it on your laptop?”

Bruce is staring at him again, though, the corners of his lips down into a frown. “Dick. Do you want to watch Star Wars?”

Dick falters. “I said it was fine.”

“Rephrasing the question, what do you want to watch?”

Dick stares and then breaks off eye contact at the weird feeling welling up in his chest. It’s almost foreign after days of heartbreak and anger and rage, but it’s not one he’d easily forget. Happiness. He’s happy. And Dick lets himself smile for the first time since he’d woken up, unable to breathe as an entire future played out in his head.

The smile is small and edged with so many of the other emotions that have managed to stay with him since he’d first gotten these memories, but it’s a smile, and he feels something more like _himself_ than he has in two days.

It’s like waking up Christmas morning to the smell of Alfred’s pancakes and hot cocoa, and the sound of Bruce’s warm, deep voice as he converses with Alfred, waiting for Dick to finally wake up so they can open presents and just…just be _happy._

“Can we watch those old funny black and white movies you like?” Dick asks, sneaking a glance at Bruce. His eyes meet an expression of warmth and joy, and it makes him smile even wider. “Please, Bruce?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, and the warmth in his eyes is echoed by his voice, and Dick can’t help but think that maybe Bruce is right. Maybe they really _will_ figure this out. Maybe they really will be okay.

 


	6. The Clark Quandary - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: I am in no way an expert when it comes to PTSD, even while I've had my own experiences with it, so please remember that this is a work of fiction, and there could be a few inaccuracies. I tried my best to make sure that wasn't the case, though.

PTSD. Dick has PTSD. There’s no denying it. The research is practically punching him in the face at this point. The symptoms match, the flashbacks match, the _trauma_ matches. It’s all there, and Bruce can’t do anything but hold his head in his hands as he sits in front of the Batcomputer, where a new file _filled to the brim_ with new information—information he’d been slowly getting all week—is staring down accusingly at him.

How had he let it come to this? Dick spent almost two days withholding this information, and Bruce hadn’t seen it. He needs to be on top of this situation. He needs to be _better._ He needs to confirm what Dick says, and then he needs to monitor him. Keep him close.

And then he needs to find a way to help Dick with his PTSD.

This will be a challenge, and Bruce thinks he would take a desperate mission with the Justice league if could just spare both him and Dick the pain he knows is ahead of them. It’s a fragile situation, on that can shatter at the slightest misstep.

Hell, Dick will probably break if this is their new norm. Dick had gotten those memories last Thursday night, and he’d hardly slept a wink since then. After telling Bruce everything Saturday morning, Dick had been slightly more upbeat throughout the day, but the night had brought nightmares. _Violent_ nightmares. Sometimes Dick would wake up screaming, or he wouldn’t be able to remember where—or even _who_ —he was.

Bruce had never in his life felt more terrified and more helpless in his life than he had bursting into Dick’s room each night and holding him until he calmed down enough to fall asleep. Each night is the same, and even though Bruce is used to getting less sleep than what’s generally considered healthy, the constant late nights are starting to wear on _him_ , too. So he can only imagine how horrible Dick must feel.

And now? Now there’s nothing Bruce can do except wait for J’onn to come back from an off-world mission _Batman_ had sent him on.

Alfred chooses that moment, when Bruce is staring through his fingers at his computer screen lamenting the shit storm his life has become in just one week, to open the clock and walk down the stairs into the Cave.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred greets him, and he sounds tired, too. “Dr. Thompkins is on the phone for you.”

Bruce sighs and lets his hands fall to the table.

 _Of course,_ Leslie is on the phone. They’ve been talking all week, since the moment Bruce had found out about what’s really been going on with Dick. Leslie had said she would look into possible treatments, and Bruce had decided to look into alternatives to seeing a psychiatrist or a psychologist.

Besides, there is _no way_ that they can pile this situation on any civilian doctor, if they would even believe it. Especially not in Gotham.

Bruce looks over to Alfred, who is still standing there, a grim expression on his face. Alfred had been the first Bruce had told of the situation. And Alfred had looked exactly the same then, when Dick had finally fallen asleep and Bruce had stayed awake staring at absolutely nothing, as he did now.

Realization jolts through Bruce, and he starts, locking his gaze with Alfred’s. He sits up in his chair and opens his mouth to ask—

“He’s upstairs, sir,” Alfred interrupts. “He’s taken to cartoons.”

—and then Bruce lets himself relax.

 _Taken to cartoons._ Yeah, right. Dick is probably only using the TV to filter out whatever’s going on in his head. The _memories_ , Bruce thinks with a bit of disgust. Dick’s been actively searching out distractions ever since before Friday’s dinner, and with how unstable he is, Bruce doesn’t like the idea of leaving the Dick by himself for more than a few minutes. Especially after Clark had called him and said, _“Dick is screaming,”_ like that wouldn’t make Bruce’s heart stop for a few seconds.

Leslie, though, is probably waiting, and Bruce needs to field her questions and possibly get some advice on how to handle this _without_ involving anybody else.

“I’ll take Leslie’s call down here,” Bruce says to Alfred, gesturing towards the general direction of the stairs. “You should go check on Dick.”

Alfred nods once. “Very well, Master Bruce.” Then Alfred hesitates, before saying, “If I may, do not expect the world of Dr. Thompkins. As extraordinary a woman as she is, she is only the one. You may not find the answers you are looking for from her.”

“I’ll be fine. Go find Dick,” Bruce says, but he still nods to Alfred, and Alfred actually takes it for once. No raised eyebrow or sarcastic remark, and it’s probably telling of how bad the situation is that _Alfred_ is passing up the chance to say something witty.

Once Alfred is gone, though, Bruce turns to the console in front of him and types in the codes that will patch Leslie through the main computer from the Manor’s line. There’s a click, and Bruce asks, “Leslie?”

 _“Bruce,”_ Leslie’s voice greets from his speakers. _“I hope this isn’t a bad time, because this is important.”_

Bruce swallows. “Tell me.”

There’s a sigh and then Leslie’s speaking again. _“It’s not looking good. I’m not a psychologist or a psychiatrist and none of the options that’s usually available would be able to work through me.”_

“We can’t just talk this through with him?” Bruce growls in frustration, desperate for _something._ Despite what Alfred had said, he wanted this to work out. This is his _kid._ He’d not going to give up at the slightest bump in the road. Dick’s been walking around like a zombie the past week, and there has to be something Bruce can do. “Behavior therapy? Medication? J’onn won’t be back on Earth for another two weeks.”

 _“I’m not qualified for this, Bruce,”_ Leslie snaps. _“Besides, this isn’t just something that can be fixed with medication. He’s not a machine. He’s human, and if we go about this the wrong way, he might end up worse off than when we started.”_

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce says, his voice dangerously low. “If Dick has PTSD like we think, then—”

 _“That’s just it,”_ Leslie interrupts. _“Dick’s a complete anomaly. His trauma isn’t coming from those memories like you’re thinking it is. From what I can tell, it’s coming from having to experience them over and over again without being able to fully absorb the complicity of them.”_

“So you’re saying it’s not PTSD,” Bruce says, his eyebrows furrowing. The symptoms match almost _completely,_ but if what Leslie says is true, then they’re dealing with something completely out of their league. Something that probably only the Martian Manhunter would be able to sort through and figure out.

 _“Not entirely.”_ There’s a pause, and Bruce waits it out instead of demanding Leslie to spit it out like he normally would. His head is still reeling from the new information. _“This is only my opinion, but I’m guessing it’s a mixture of trauma from what he’s seen and that fact that he’s seeing anything at all.”_

“I’m not following.”

 _“PTSD is a disorder, right?”_ Bruce nods, even though Leslie can’t see him, and she keeps going. _“Well, based off what we know, these memories aren’t affecting him completely the same PTSD would. They seem to be attacking his brain, kind of like how a disease or an infection attacks the body.”_

“So if we want to help him,” Bruce says, realizing what Leslie’s trying to get at, “we have to help him control the infection.”

Leslie makes a noise of agreement. _“Kind of like antibiotic. There’s another problem if we’re looking at it this way, though.”_

Bruce lets his face fall back into his hands. He hadn’t been too optimistic about this whole thing when they’d started this conversation, but he hadn’t thought it would turn out to be something like _this._ But Bruce isn’t stupid, either, and now that he understands what stance they’re taking, he can guess where’s Leslie thoughts are heading.

“It’s his age, isn’t it?” Bruce asks.

 _“His brain is still underdeveloped,”_ Leslie confirms. _“There’s no way to say how this situation has altered any growth and development, and I suggest you two come down to the clinic to get him an MRI as soon as possible. Bring his latest scan so we can compare any differences.”_

Bruce hums in agreement, beyond done with this situation. “And for the antibiotic?”

 _“I told you, Bruce,”_ Leslie says, and she sounds as tired and exhausted as he feels, _“I’m not qualified for that part. There’s only so much I can do.”_

So they _will_ have to wait for J’onn to return. He’d known that, but he had hoped that maybe he could something other than be _useless_ in the meantime. But two more weeks of this—or waiting around trying to help Dick, of _failing_ to help Dick—is something that Bruce isn’t sure he’s up for.

And yet, there’s no other option. He won’t let Dick drown in this alone. He’ll hold Dick above water for as long as he’s able, Bruce knows.

“We’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Bruce decides quickly. The brain development is something that they can tackle _now_ , and maybe it’ll help Bruce feel less like he’s trying to close the stable door after the horses have already escaped. “At ten.”

 _“Fine,”_ Leslie sighs. _“Good luck, Bruce.”_

Bruce doesn’t think it’s _him_ that needs it, but he takes it anyways. They have a long road ahead of them, him and Dick. One that Bruce will be by Dick’s side for the entire way.

* * *

Dick’s tired of cartoons. He’s tired of being awake. He’s tired of seeing things that haven’t happened yet. But most of all, he’s tried of Bruce staying down in the Batcave for so many hours a day, typing away on the computer, like he can organize and research a solution to something Dick’s sure no one’s ever even heard about before.

Dick has looked, too, and when he’d come up with a load of _nothing,_ he’d stopped. He doesn’t need the internet to tell him he’s crazy, too. But Dick doesn’t think that Bruce will ever stop, no matter how many times he’s told that there _is_ no answer. At least not a human one.

“Master Dick?” Alfred says, walking into the den where Dick’s sitting upside down on the couch. Dick can practically _feel_ the eyebrow that gets raised at his position, but Dick just settles his expression into something grumpier than before. His head already hurts, so why should he care about the blood rushing to it? Alfred sighs and says, “Right side up, my boy.”

Dick doesn’t comply for a minute, but when he catches sight of Alfred’s frown out of the corner of his eye, he flips himself to his feet and settles into the couch like a _boring_ person. Alfred then takes to straightening the bookshelves that Dick knows definitely don’t need straightening.

Great. So, Alfred’s in babysitting mode again.

Silence takes over the room besides the light chatter of the TV, but every few minutes or so, Dick sees Alfred glancing his way. Awesome. So Bruce has set Alfred to _constant watch and make Dick feel like a baby who can’t take care of himself._ He couldn’t even come up from the Cave and do it in person.

Still, Dick doesn’t say anything about it. He’s not sure how he would even broach the topic. And the longer Alfred’s in the room, the more Dick finds himself relaxing. So, maybe he _doesn’t_ really mind the company—or the soft humming—but he still doesn’t appreciate Bruce and Alfred treating him like he’s made of glass.

He’s been stuck on house arrest since he’d first told Bruce about the memories, and at first Dick hadn’t minded the constant attention that Bruce and Alfred had been giving him. He’d _needed_ it. He had needed to feel like he was actually there—like he was actually in reality and _not_ losing his mind.

But after a whole week of things slowly changing, after Bruce had decided that figuring out the problem was better than being upstairs with Dick, after Leslie starting tiptoeing around him once he’d realized that Dick was triggered by the slightest thing—Dick thinks that the only one acting normal is Alfred. Everything seems messier than before.

Still, the memories aren’t coming at him so fiercely. Not anymore, at least. Sure, they’re still there, and sometimes he’ll see something and he suddenly finds himself _years_ away from the present, but the frequency has dropped off. The weekend had been full of them, but it’s literally been a full 24 hours since Dick had last had an “episode” as Bruce calls them.

Dick’s getting—not _better,_ but he thinks he might be getting used to the memories. He’s starting to feel just a bit more normal than before. Something about getting it out into the open had most definitely helped, and while he’s not completely and suddenly _fine,_ he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall to pieces at the slightest touch anymore.

If anything, it’s the _manor_ that’s getting worse, not his head. Leslie had told him to stay home from school for a little while, even going so far as to send Gotham Academy a doctor’s note explaining his absence. Bruce won’t let him go out as Robin for the time being, either. And Dick understands their reasons, he _does,_ but sometimes he feels like he’s choking on their overprotectiveness.

The whole point of telling Bruce had been to have Bruce help him feel normal. Right now, he feels so far from normal, maybe even worse than when he’d first gotten these memories a week ago. He’d thought he’d be okay once Bruce knew, but Bruce has just tightened his hold on Dick’s life. It’s _suffocating._

“Hey, Alfie?” Dick asks after a while, cautiously, making sure to keep his eyes on the TV and not the butler. “Do you think Bruce will let me go back to school tomorrow?”

There’s silence for a full thirty second—Dick counts—before Alfred heaves a sigh and does what Dick has never in his two years at the manor seen Alfred do before. The butler sits down next to Dick no the couch, meeting his gaze evenly. Dick sits up a tad straighter.

“Of that, Master Dick, I am not sure,” Alfred says, and he sounds so _old,_ and it had been _Dick_ that had made him sound like that. Dick bites at his lip, and Alfred continues, “It may not be wise to send you into such an environment until we have a handle on this situation. I think you know that.”

“But nothing’s happened all day!” Dick protests. And it’s true, for the most part. Sure, he’d woken up this morning from a particularly nasty nightmare about his own death again—

_The knife glints in the light and sinks into Dick’s stomach. The smell of blood. The sound of Savage’s chant that Dick can’t make out the words to._

—but other than that, Dick’s day had been pretty boring. Breakfast, gym, lunch, trapeze, schoolwork Alfred had picked up, dinner, cartoons. No memories besides the occasional twinges of nostalgia or déjà vu.

(He doesn’t really count the ones that rose up just as he pushes them down again, giving him brief flashes. He’s getting used to it. He’s not letting them control him. He can’t.)

Alfred just shakes his head, though. “It is not up for me to decide, Master Dick.”

Dick sighs and deflates into the couch. “Bruce isn’t going to say yes.”

“Perhaps not so soon, no,” Alfred agrees, standing up only to kneel in front of Dick. Dick watches him, but he stays where he is. Alfred’s eyes are kind and understanding, but there’s something else that Dick can’t quite comprehend. Or maybe he can, he thinks when a memories surges up, but he suppresses it viciously, squashing it like a bug and keeping his focus on Alfred, even as Alfred asks, “Pray tell, Master Dick, why are you so eager to go back to school?”

Dick shrugs, tugging at his own fingers for a moment. “I like school.”

“Yes,” Alfred says. “You do. But I do not think that is the only reason you are hoping Master Bruce will let you go.”

Dick winces. _Busted._ He tries not to hunch in on himself too much, gritting his teeth as emotions that he had thought he’d left behind when Alfred had first come in come back to settle in his stomach. Again, just like before with Bruce, he’s lost for words. He doesn’t know how to just _blurt it out,_ no matter how much he wishes he could, just so Alfred can tell him he’s being silly.

“It’s nothing,” Dick murmurs. “I just miss my friends.”

He refuses to think anything further than that, because the last time he’d thought about the word _friends,_ it had led to a whole night of staring at the ceiling with tears pouring down his cheeks. He can’t ruin this.

“Why don’t I believe you?” Alfred sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “Does this have anything to do with—”

“No,” Dick interrupts. Alfred’s expression twists into something disapproving, and Dick looks away quickly, mumbling, “Sorry. It’s just—it’s not the memories. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

Dick bites his lip again. “If I tell you,” he whispers after a few seconds, “then you have to promise not to tell Bruce. If he find out, he’s just going to get worried again.”

Bruce is a complicated creature on a good day, and Dick’s enjoyed his years bringing Bruce out of his shell—except, he’s mixing it up again, maybe. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but Dick can’t really remember anymore whether he’s known about Bruce’ obsessive behavior since he’d come to the manor, or if that’s something from—

Either way. Dick knows that Bruce is just worrying about Dick in his own way. Where Dick needs hugs, Bruce needs information.

Still, Dick thinks that maybe Bruce should know by now that hiding down in the Cave instead of being up here with Dick isn’t helping Dick in the slightest. Or maybe—or maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe that’s something that Dick hasn’t told Bruce yet. It’s hard to keep it all straight, sometimes.

Alfred pats Dick’s knee, bringing him out of his thoughts, and there’s an honest promise in Alfred’s eyes when he says, “I won’t say a word.’

“It’s the house,” Dick admits at once, and he looks Alfred straight in the eyes. Both knees are brought to his chest, and he curls his arms around them, making himself look as small as he feels. “Sometimes I’ll be in my room or the gym, and—I don’t know. I feel like nothing’s safe anymore, even with all of Bruce’s security stuff. I don’t—”

He cuts himself off. He hadn’t meant to unload _all_ of that onto Alfred.

But the manor’s turned into something oppressive, just like back when he’d first come to the manor. The rooms are either too big and empty, or too nicely furnished and unlived in. Sometimes he’ll mix up his memories and walk into rooms to get something that he hadn’t known was even there in the first place. Or he’ll try to find something, only to realize that it won’t be there for another couple years.

On top of that, Bruce won’t let him into the Cave, and the only place he feels even a little bit okay is in Bruce’s bedroom or in the kitchen with Alfred.

It’s stupid. It’s so, _so_ stupid to feel like this. Like this isn’t his home anymore. And he feels like a baby complaining to Alfred, but it’s _really_ bothering him. Nothing feels safe anymore. He’s even had to take down the Flying Grayson poster in his room after too many memories of his dead bodies hit him during a passing glance.

He’s scared of sleeping in his room alone, scared of the monsters lying in his head and underneath his bed, even when he knows the real monsters are the ones he and Batman face out on the streets.

“I guess it’s just hard to be alone,” Dick tries again when Alfred doesn’t say anything. “And going to school for half the day is easier—” (less painful than a house full of memories that make him feel like a stranger in his own home) “—than waiting for Bruce to come home from work or patrol. It’ll just be—easier.”

And maybe the lessons, the students, the teachers that surround _this_ time, _this_ grade, will give him something to focus on. Keep him away from the memories so he doesn’t have to push them down anymore.

Alfred watches him with careful eyes, and just when Dick think he’s about to say something in answer to that, the doorbell rings.

Dick blinks, startled, and then he checks the clock hanging on the wall. _9:15 pm._ Nobody should be here this late, and only a few people even have the codes to make it past the gate to the front door. Dick shares a bewildered look with Alfred.

Getting to his feet, Alfred says, “I will be back in a moment.”

“I want to go with!” Dick exclaims, and before he can even think about it, he’s off of the couch, holding onto Alfred’s sleeve, feeling like a kindergartener that’s too afraid of his guardian leaving him for the first time.

But—that’s exactly how it _feels._ Dick thinks of Alfred walking towards the door, away from the den where Dick had holed himself up to watch cartoons in search of a distraction, and his heart pounds in his chest. Like the moment someone leaves him alone the walls will close in on him and crush him. It’s irrational, but it’s close to what it feels like to have fear toxin flowing through his veins.

“Master Dick,” Alfred says with a frown. “I believe you should stay here.”

Dick tightens his grip. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Alfred.”

It takes a few seconds, but finally Alfred concedes. “You may come with, but please stay out of direct line of sight of the front door.”

Dick nods and follows Alfred to the foyer. He knows the drill. It’s not the first time that reporters and paparazzi have made it to the front door, and he definitely remembers more than a few times—both present and future—that they’ve tried to take pictures of the inside of the manor by just coming up to the front door.

Although, most of those people had restraining orders on them, now. And they’d never gotten past Alfred before, so Dick’s not _too_ worried about who it could be. Maybe it’s Jim, Dick thinks as Alfred checks the security feed. And Dick relaxes when Alfred’s shoulders lose the tension that had built up.

“Mister Kent,” Alfred greets, opening the door to a concerned man with glasses and—

Dick blinks, feeling light-headed with the amount of familiarity and _emotion_ that rushes through him at the sight of the man. _Uncle Clark,_ something inside him whispers, but it isn’t gentle and loving like Dick usually would have said it. It’s vicious and angry and _betrayed,_ and Dick has to lean against the nearest wall as his head spins in dizzy circles.

It’s like that first night, when he’d looked at Bruce’s sleeping face and remembered— _Jason, Wally, Bruce comforting him, Bruce rejecting him—_ these terrible things that he shouldn’t have to know yet. This isn’t Bruce, though. This is Uncle Clark— _Superman._ He shouldn’t be feeling anything but happy to see him.

But he’s not happy. The memories swirl and swirl and _swirl_ until Dick’s not sure he knows up from down anymore. Where is he again? Is he—he’d been with Alfred, right? And then— _Clark._ He has to do something. He has to—

_Clark floats there above them—but it isn’t Clark. Not anymore. His cape waves in the breeze behind him, his expression twisted into something cruel and cold, and his eyes are glowing green. This isn’t Clark._

_No, Clark is his friend. The one he hugs and has coffee with after a difficult day at the manor or a rough fight with Bruce. Clark is the person who Dick trusts with his identity, and his brother’s death, and his best friend’s death. He’s the person Dick grew up with, the one Dick sees as extended family._

_And this isn’t him._

_Whatever’s happened to him, Dick thinks as he readies himself for a fight, it’s not going to lead to anything good._

_And that’s when things really go to hell._


	7. The Clark Quandary - Part 2

_Whatever’s happened to Clark, Dick doesn’t like it._

_It’s frustrating, because there’s no way to_ reason _with him. He’s a mindless minion now, acting just like Conner had all those years ago after Dick had released him into the world. Clark doesn’t have a consciousness to limit him anymore. He’s only follow whatever orders are being fed into his mind. The Clark part of Superman—he’s gone. Dick knows that he’s gone._

 _But, it’s hard to fight him. Even if Clark hadn’t been Superman, Dick probably still would have had a hard time raising his fists. This is_ Clark. _Someone Dick’s looked up to for more than half of his life. And to have to fight him like this, here and now? It’s hard._

_Batman would tell him to keep going, though, so he does. If he does, then maybe he can save Clark._

_And he thinks that as he fights beside Conner and Cassie, up until Dick’s smashed into the side of a building by one of Clark’s punches. The pain in his back and his head is blinding, and Dick’s sure he passes out for a moment, because when he opens his eyes afterwards, he’s lying on his side, Conner’s trembling hand hovering over him._

_“Nightwing,” Conner says, and it’s desperate and terrified. Dick can’t breathe—can’t breathe, can’t answer, can’t reassure. The wind’s been knocked from his lungs, and Dick can’t seem to get it back. But the lack of answer makes Conner’s hand settle on Dick’s shoulder and squeeze gently. “Dick! Talk to me!”_

_“‘M fine,” Dick manages to gasp out. He watches the fight just a couple of yards away from them, and Cassie is holding her own, but she’s not going to be enough. He can’t push himself to his feet, though. He can barely_ move.

_“You’re not fine,” Conner says. “Stay down. I’ve already radioed Red Hood. He’s on his way to get you out of here.”_

_Dick glares at Conner, even though Dick’s wearing a mask and he knows that him and Conner have been friends way too long for anything that Dick sends his way in anger to hurt him much. Especially if it’s just a look. Conner also looks—shaken. Dick can relate, but they’re going to save him. It won’t stay like this for long. They’ll save Clark._

_Dick blinks, and it’s not Conner above him anymore. It’s Jason. His helmet is off, leaving him in just a domino, and Roy’s sitting there with him, both of them looking grim as they hover over him._

_“You with me, Dickie?” Jason asks, and Dick can only heave a cough in reply. Jason seems to take it as a good sign, though, because he continues, “We need to get you out of here and regroup. There’s nothing we can do against a Kryptonian without Kryptonite.”_

_“You know where to get some?” Roy asks, sounding bewildered. “I though Superman had almost all of it destroyed.”_

_“Batman,” Dick wheezes at the same time Jason huffs out, “You’re kidding, right?”_

_Roy puts his hands up defensively, one of them still holding his bow. “Hey, chill. It was just a question.”_

_Jason shakes his head and turns his attention back to Dick. “Has anyone checked you for a spinal cord injury? Anything life threatening I should know about? Superboy said you hit that building pretty hard.”_

_“I don’t know,” Dick croaks, and he’s feeling fuzzy again. It’s his head. Definitely his head. “My back’s sore, but I don’t think it’ll be more than a big bruise. I think I have a concussion, though.”_

_“Cover us, Roy,” Jason orders, and then Dick’s lenses are flipped up, and Jason looks at his eyes, asks him questions that Dick can’t really remember giving answers to, and feels the back of his head. Both Dick and Jason wince when Jason’s fingers run over the knot on the back of his skull. “Sheesh. I’m honestly surprised your even still conscious.”_

_Dick blinks blearily at his brother, at Roy, at the scene behind the two, and thinks that maybe he’s not going to hold out much longer. He’s tired, and it’s only by sheer willpower that he’s even still awake. But there’s something writhing in his stomach at the_ wrongness _of the situation, and Dick_ can’t _close his eyes. Can’t give in. Not while his friends are still trying to fight Clark. To save him._

_Except—he does give in. He blinks, and then he’s on his back, the sounds of the fight muffled by buildings. So, either the fight moved, or Dick did._

_Roy’s talking, and Dick makes himself listen, to make sense of the words. “—how they got to him? He’s Kryptonian. They shouldn’t have been able to get into his head.”_

_“It’s like an infection,” Dick mumbles, and both Roy’s and Jason’s gazes turn to him._

_“You back with us, Dickiebird?”_

_Dick hums. “You’re talking about Clark.”_

_Jason’s attention stays on him for a moment, before he’s nodding. “Yeah. You have any info? Roy and I aren’t exactly part of the circle anymore.”_

_“Clark got sick,” Dick says, the memories playing in his head like it was yesterday. “About two weeks ago. Batman was driving himself crazy trying to figure out what was attacking Clark’s system. And then a couple of hours ago, Clark got out of bed and he looked completely healthy. Except—”_

_“He turned into that,” Jason finishes, a grimace on his face. “B figure out what happened?”_

_“Luthor and Vandal Savage was his best guess,” Dick whispers, trying to keep his eyes open. It’s hard, though. He just wants—he just wants Bruce. “They were the last people Superman had contact with before he collapsed in the Watchtower.”_

_“Hey,” Jason says, fingers tapping his cheek. “Don’t fall asleep until we can—”_

_“Nightwing!” a voice calls out, and then Tim’s dropping down from a fire escape above them. Tim turns his scared look to Jason. “Is he okay?”_

_“I’m fine,” Dick says, still blinking rapidly to force himself to stay awake. How long has he been away from the fight? What’s Tim doing here? Where’s Bruce? All the questions swirl in his head, though, and the only thing he really manages to get out is, “Are you okay?” which is alright, because Tim is important, too._

_Jason huffs out a laugh. “Typical.” Jason turns to Tim. “He’s got a concussion. Back’s bruised, but he can move his legs.” Dick didn’t remember that, but Jason seems pretty sure, so Dick doesn’t comment. Though, he’s not sure he could actually say anything coherent. “I don’t think we’re looking at an SCI. But, we need to get him out of here. Did B bring the Batmobile?”_

_Tim nods. “Yeah, it’s just down the street.”_

_Jason looms over him. “Close your eyes, Dickie. I don’t want you to throw up when I do this.”_

_Dick closes his eyes automatically, and opens his mouth, just about to ask what Jason means, when there’s a surge of pain as Jason scoops him up into his arms. His self-control goes right out the window when the agony crawls in, and it’s only then that Dick remembers that doesn’t have_ time _for this. He’s got to save Clark._

_Dick doesn’t know how, but he’s gone from cradled in Jason’s arms—his little brother, who got bigger, broader, and taller than him without Dick’s permission—with Roy and Tim next to them, to sitting in a puddle of blood in the middle of a warehouse, cradling Tim’s limp body._

_He can’t breathe—and it’s not because of his back injury. That’s healed, now. But this—this is something that will never heal again. It’s happened again, and just like last time, it’s all his fault. He hadn’t been there for Jason, and even though he was here this time, it still hadn’t been enough. He still couldn’t save his little brother._

_“Tim,” Dick whispers to his little brother’s corpse, like it’ll make him wake up and come back to him. That hadn’t worked with his parents, though, and it probably won’t work on Tim. He cups Tim’s cool cheek in his hand, anyways. “Please, Timmy. Please, please, please. You can’t be dead. You_ can’t _be.”_

_Tim doesn’t answer. Because there’s no breath in Tim’s body. No blood. All of it’s spilled out on the floor underneath them. He can’t make himself move, though. He can’t make himself do anything but plead with his little brother to wake up. To open his eyes._

_“Dick,” Clarks says from just a few feet away. And it’s only the three—two of them in this stupid warehouse. Dick whips his head up to glare at Clark, clutching Tim’s body closer to him. Clark’s gaze is wide and horrified at the destruction he wrought. At the agony Dick couldn’t keep Clark from committing. Clark chokes. “Dick, I—”_

_“You killed him,” Dick whispers, and it’s Dick’s fault. He should have saved Tim. Should have saved Clark. But he hadn’t. Clark’s eyes are blue now, instead of that eerie luminous green that reminds Dick so much of Kryptonite, and Dick’s having a hard time trying to separate Clark from Luthor. “You killed Tim.”_

_“I didn’t mean—” Clark cuts himself off this time, still looking horrified, but the blue flickers to green and back again. Clark grunts in pain and brings a hand to his head, and part of Dick—the part that remembers warm summer nights flying through the air in Superman’s protective arms—wants to stand up and help him. To administer that antidote that Bruce thinks might work._

_But the other part of him—the part that’s had to live through his parents’ and Jason’s and Wally’s and Artemis and Kaldur’s and now_ Tim’s _deaths, and doesn’t think he can take any more of the people he loves disappearing on him—can’t do anything but keep Tim’s body in his arms and pray to whoever’s listening that Tim will miraculously come back to him, just like Jason had._

_(Except, Jason had been a fluke. And even then, there was a price for his continued existence, and Dick doesn’t think he ever wants Tim to go through what Jason had.)_

_Clark’s eyes flicker one more time, but this time they stay green, and Clark becomes the monster that killed Dick’s little brother once again. Becomes what Luthor made him. But this time, Dick can’t find it in him to stand up and keep fighting. He doesn’t know if he ever will again._

_“Dick!” someone shouts from behind him, but Dick doesn’t bother to look up from Tim’s body. Not even when there’s a flutter of a familiar cape that whips past him and the sound of Jason’s gun rings out. No, his wide, dry eyes only have sight for Tim._

_It goes on for a few minutes, but Dick barely notices. The time flies by, until he realizes that Clark’s no longer in the warehouse with them. It’s just Dick, the two that had save him, and Tim’s dead body._

_“You stay with Nightwing,” Dick hears Batman growl. “I’m going after Superman.”_

_“By yourself?” Red Hood demands._

_“Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave Nightwing alone when—” Bruce chokes, that little bit of emotion escaping past the wall of the cowl. Dick hates to hear it, and it makes Dick shake back to himself enough to realize he’s trembling and pleading with Tim to get up again and again. Over and over._

_“No,” Jason says lowly. “No, I don’t.”_

_There’s a pause, and then Bruce says, “Look after him.” And then Bruce is gone and Jason is crouching in front of Dick._

_“Dick, look at me.” Dick shakes his head, but Jason’s hands force his head up, force his_ lenses _up, and Dick’s blue meet’s Jason’s green, helmet nowhere to be found. Jason’s eyes are impossibly sad, but Dick doesn’t think that sadness is for Tim. Jason and Tim had less than six months to even get to know each other, and for half of that, there had been a lot of hard feelings. Jason doesn’t—didn’t—consider Tim a brother like Dick does—did._

 _And then the tears come, and Dick cries. He cries and cries and cries into his brother’s dead body. This is the second brother he’s lost, and he wonders why it’s always_ him. _Why is it always Dick and Bruce against the world? Why does he always_ lose _everybody?_

_And—well. Dick drowns in his tears, and he thinks it’ll be a long time before he’s going to be able to surface again._

* * *

Clark isn’t sure what to expect when Alfred opens the door to the manor, but he doesn’t think it’s this mundane. Clark didn’t drop everything as soon as soon as he could and catch a plane to Gotham just to have Alfred answer the door like absolutely nothing’s wrong when he _knows—_

He stops that train of thought before it can derail too much and cause him to spiral. He’s already freaking out, and he’s sure there’s no need to freak out more.

“Mister Kent,” Alfred greets, and Clark sends the butler his best smile but—it’s tight and pained.

 The concern and panic has probably never been so clear on his face, but, well. This is _Dick._ For the past two years, Dick’s been like a nephew to him, and to hear Dick _screaming_ like that. Clark has to repress a shudder as Alfred steps away from the door to let him in. His first instinct had been to fly to Dick’s rescue immediately, but—well. He’d figured he’d better call Bruce first, just in case.

And then Bruce had told Clark that he was taking care of it. But after not hearing back from Bruce all week, Clark’s going out of his mind with worry. He _needs_ to see Dick for himself. To make sure Dick is really alright.

And Clark takes a step forward, and frowns. Because Dick, who is leaning against the wall, is staring blankly at his face. Dick’s heart skips a beat and his breathing hitches, and then his eyes slide out of focus, and Dick’s sliding down the wall to spill onto the floor.

Clark’s moving before he even registers it. Alfred does something behind him with the intercom, but Clark tunes it out. He crouches in front of Dick, but then he stalls, his own heart doing a little dance of panic at the sight of the boy in front of him having some kind of—Clark doesn’t even know. Is it a panic attack? Is Dick hurt? Poisoned? Is he sick? Was this why he was screaming before? Should he touch Dick? Try to calm him down? Try to get his attention?

Or is he just going to make it worse?

There are so many unanswered questions, but Clark can’t make himself calm down.

“Alfred,” Clark calls, and Alfred comes, kneeling down in front of the boy. Clark makes way for the butler, and watches as Alfred calmly—but still troubled, based off his expression—waves his hand in front of Dick’s eyes. And when Dick doesn’t even blink, just seems to sink deeper into whatever has its grips on him, Alfred sighs.

“What’s wrong with him?” Clark asks. His throat feels like it’s swelling with panic, and Alfred isn’t really _doing_ anything to help Dick. He just—gave up. “What’s happening?”

“He’s having a flashback,” Alfred says, a minute tremble to his voice. “I’ve called Master Bruce to come help with the situation.”

Clark chokes, latching onto that last part. “A _flashback?!”_

“Calm down, Clark,” Bruce says, a steely expression on his face as he walks into the foyer. Alfred gets to his feet and Bruce takes his place in front of Dick. Bruce’s expression melts into pain as soon as he lays eyes on Dick, and Clark can only watch in some sort of horrified wonder as Bruce cups Dick’s face in his hands, speaking softly, “Look at me, Dick.”

Dick shudders, but his eyes don’t move from the middle distance, from whatever he’s seeing. But Bruce doesn’t give up. There’s a determined look in his eyes, and he squeezes Dick’s face gently, running a thumb across one cheek.

Clark finds he can only watch.

“Dick,” Bruce says. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. It hasn’t happened yet.”

Clark starts, opening his mouth to ask— _what? What hasn’t happened yet? What is that supposed to mean?_ —but he closes it only a second later because Dick shifts, his eyes focusing just the slightest bit on Bruce, before they slide away again.

But it _worked._ Just for a second, Dick had seen Bruce.

“Dick,” Bruce repeats, this a bit more firmly. “I need you to look at me. Dick. _Robin.”_

“Tim’s dead,” Dick says, and Clark realizes that the boy is trembling. He’s—this flashback. What is even happening? Dick licks his lips, his eyes wide and glazed and unfocused, though they snap towards Bruce every few seconds before drifting away. “He’s dead, Jason.”

“I’m not Jason,” Bruce tells Dick. “I need you to focus on me, Dick.”

Dick does, but he’s still shaking. “Tim’s dead.”

“Dick, _focus_ ,” Bruce says, and Clark wishes he could focus on Bruce’s face, on his body language, to understand what’s going on through the seemingly calm man’s head. But he can’t. Clark can’t take his eyes off of Dick’s scared, pained, _shocked_ face.

This is not like any flashback Clark’s seen or experienced before. It’s more like Dick’s trapped inside his own mind, like he has something else playing out in front of him. Something that no one else can see.

“Dick,” Bruce says again, this time with just a bit more tremor in his voice. “It’s not real. You’re in the manor. I’m here, Alfred’s here, Clark’s here. And you’re here. You’re not there. Tim isn’t dead.”

Dick shakes his head, and it probably would have become a fervent motion if Bruce hadn’t been holding Dick’s face in his hands. But Bruce squeezes again, and Dick seems to jolt, his breathing picking up to dangerous levels, and Clark feels that spark of panic overtake him again.

“Bruce—” Clark starts, but Dick’s head snaps up, bright blue, _focused_ eyes meeting Clark’s behind his glasses.

“You killed Tim,” Dick whispers, and that’s—that’s anger in Dick’s voice. That’s complete _rage,_ an emotion Clark doesn’t think he’s _ever_ heard in Dick’s tone before just now. And definitely never directed at _him._ Dick strains against Bruce’s hold but it seems sluggish at best. “You killed Tim, and—and—”

“You’re not making any sense,” Bruce tells Dick, dragging Dick’s face back so that their eyes meet. “Dick, Clark didn’t kill anyone.”

“It’s not Clark!” Dick says, bringing his hands to grip Bruce’s wrists. There are tears in his eyes now, and his chest spasms with sobs. “Bruce—you said—you said it wasn’t Clark. It’s _not!”_

And then Dick’s eyes roll back in his head, and he passes out. Bruce pulls him forward to cradle the unconscious boy in his lap, furious eyes trained on his son, and Clark thinks that maybe it’s time for an explanation to this whole thing. Because Clark’s about _this_ close to exploding.

“Explain,” Clark breathes. “Now.”

Bruce is silent for a while, and when the silence is broke, it’s by Alfred.

“Perhaps,” the butler says quietly, a troubled expression on his face. “We should take this conversation to the study. The floor is hardly the appropriate place for life changing reveals, wouldn’t you say.”

Bruce sighs, and pushes himself to his feet, never losing his grip on Dick. He maneuvers the boy so that Dick’s head is resting on his shoulder and Bruce’s hip is supporting Dick more than anything. “The study,” Bruce agrees. “Follow me.”

And despite himself, Clark does.


	8. The Clark Quandary - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise?

“I don’t understand,” Dick hears Clark say. “I don’t—That doesn’t make any _sense.”_

“That’s because you’re not listening.”

That’s Bruce’s voice. Rough and low. He’s irritated, and it’s showing. Dick thinks that if Clark doesn’t start listening to whatever Bruce is trying to say, Bruce is going to leave. Or make Clark leave. Whichever works best for Bruce.

“Then actually _explain_ it to me,” Clark hisses back, and Dick can’t help but the wave of fear that washes over him. But it’s not exactly _fear._ It’s concern and anger and terror all wrapped up into one big package and Dick can’t separate the emotions from each other.

He’s tired, though, and he doesn’t have the energy to try.

He’s being held, he realizes after a moment. Bruce’s arms, strong and warm and _familiar,_ hold him up, and in return, he’s got his own arms wrapped around Bruce’s neck and his face shoved into the crook. His eyes are closed, but Dick doesn’t think he can open them. Instead, he keeps listening.

“I have.”

“You haven’t.”

“I _have,”_ Bruce insists. “Dick has memories of the future.”

“And how are you so sure?” Clark demands. “He’s ten. You can’t just take his word for it.”

Bruce growls something, but—

_The knife glints. Clark’s eyes glow green. Vandal Savage smiles._

—he misses it.

Clark and Bruce lower their voices, and the memories surge up and overwhelm him. The darkness bleeds in, and Dick can’t help but surrender to it.

And then he falls down, down, down. And this time, he doesn’t know if he’s going to surface.

* * *

Bruce wants to punch Clark in the face. It’s not an uncommon mood for him, but there hasn’t been this much anger surging through him in a few weeks, and the sudden mood swing from worried to angry has Bruce leaving his charge with Alfred and leading Clark outside to the clump of trees in his backyard.

Despite himself, Bruce kicks a damn tree.

“I’ve gone over this in my head for a _week_ , Clark,” Bruce snaps, and Clark does nothing but lean against another tree, his head in his hands. He looks almost as distressed as Bruce feels. “He’s different than he was a week ago. He’s still Dick, but there’s a part of him that’s harsher. Shaped by more trauma than I have _ever_ wanted to see him go through. You spend more than five minutes talking to him and you’ll understand what I mean.”

“But what if it’s hypnosis or mind control?” Clark asks, like Bruce hasn’t already gone over the possibility. Clark doesn’t look up, but he keeps going. “Or some kind of alien tech? Or magic?”

“I’m almost positive it was magic,” Bruce says. “There are trace amounts in his system. Leslie doesn’t think he’s lying, either. J’onn is the only one left to confirm it with. I’ve run every test I can think of, but he’s dealing with trauma, Clark. It could have been implanted in his head, sure, but whether or not the future he sees is _our_ future, it’s real to him. And I believe him. So why can’t you?”

Clark sighs. “Sorry, Bruce. Just…give me a little bit to process this.”

Bruce kicks the tree again in response. And again. One more time. Just because he’s going mad with worry and helplessness while Dick goes mad with visions in his own head.

“Have you called J’onn?” Clark asks.

“It’s the first thing I tried,” Bruce grunts. “He’s off world. Won’t be in contact for another two weeks.”

Clark looks nervous. “So what happens now?”

“MRI,” Bruce says. “We check his brain development to see what’s changed, and if we can afford to wait the two weeks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Bruce growls. “I’ve been busy.”

“I care about him, too.” Clark looks sincere. It makes Bruce feel a thousand things that he doesn’t have the capacity to process.

“What’s done is done,” Bruce manages to grind out. He’s frustrated beyond belief, and he wants to kick more trees. For Alfred’s hard work, though, he refrains. “We should go back inside.”

* * *

“Is Uncle Clark still here?” Dick asks when he wakes up on the study’s couch to Alfred cleaning.

Alfred’s gaze is a million miles away until Dick speaks and snaps him out of his thoughts, but Dick can’t help asking. There’s a funny feeling in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Clark again. He doesn’t want to avoid Clark, but he also doesn’t want to spiral into another flashback. Not when he’s been so good at keeping them back.

Alfred smiles wanly. “I’m afraid so, Master Dick. Now, how are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Dick says truthfully. It’s quiet for another few moments as Alfred waits for Dick to continue, like the butler just _knows_ Dick has something else to say. “Is it going to be like this forever? Am I never going to be able to look at someone and act normally around them?”

“I wouldn’t say _never_ , Master Dick,” Alfred consoles him, “for never is a very long time. After all, just last week, you couldn’t stand being in the same room as Leslie nor myself without long periods of unconsciousness. And now, here you are. Holding a full conversation with me.”

Dick licks his lips and curls into the blanket Bruce must have laid over him while he was out cold. “Is this why I can’t go to school?”

Alfred sighs. “Master Dick, you are a smart boy. _Very_ smart. You must have known the reason Master Bruce was not eager to send you back to school.”

“I knew,” Dick admitted. “But being here is bad, too.”

“Yes,” Alfred says solemnly. “So you’ve told me. But until Master Bruce and Dr. Thompkins are able to determine whether you are in danger because of this terrible thing that has happened to you, it’s safer if you are around someone who understands the warning signs if you were to fall into a flashback.”

“But I—”

“Richard,” Alfred says, voice soft but stern and serious, too. “Your teachers and peers are in no way equipped to offer you help should you need it, and at school, neither Master Bruce nor I could reach you in an instant.”

Alfred’s right, Dick thinks. He’s right and it’s horrible, because that means Dick’s going to be stuck in this house until he gets all this under control, and—Dick doesn’t even know _how_ to do that. He’s been so good all day, and the moment he sees Uncle Clark, everything falls apart, and it’s like Dick’s back at square one.

“I hate this,” Dick chokes out. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

“So do I,” Alfred confesses, finally stepping forward to rest a hand on Dick’s shoulder in comfort. “And I am sure Master Bruce does, as well. But there’s nothing we can do but try to mitigate the damage.”

Dick nods. He feels awful, like he’ll never be in control again, but he still nods. Because he’s not giving up. Especially not after what he saw.

Dick sniffs. “Is Uncle Clark coming back?”

“Do you want to see him?” Alfred asks, no judgement in his eyes, only curiosity. “I am sure he will leave if you don’t, but it’s ultimately up to you, my boy. If you believe you can handle see him, I certainly won’t stop you.”

“Will Bruce?” Dick asks.

Alfred’s smile is small and sad. “Possibly. However, it’s not Master Bruce’s decision, is it?”

Dick shakes his head. “I want to see him.”

He thinks. He’s terrified of falling back into a flashback, but he doesn’t want his memory of Clark to be tainted with memories of those horrible green eyes that send shivers down his spine even now. Whoever that Clark is in the future, it isn’t who Clark is now.

And that makes all the difference, right?

“Are you sure?” Alfred asks.

“Yes,” Dick whispers. “I’m sure.”

* * *

Clark is sitting across from Dick, concern written across his face as he watches Bruce tuck Dick into his side with a single hesitation. Dick’s used to it—or, he will be? It’s still hard to keep track—but it’s only be a few years since Bruce had taken Dick in, and as touch-happy as Dick is on a good day, Bruce doesn’t initiate hugs or anything like hugs very often right now. He will, eventually, but for now, it’s not common, and Clark looks a little alarmed at the big change.

But Dick understands. He understands far more than he ever thought he would, being caught somewhere between eleven and twenty. He understands that Bruce is reacting to the change in Dick, and this whole thing has already changed their dynamic some.

“Are you feeling alright now?” Clark asks Dick, apparently choosing to ignore Bruce’s behavior. “You still look pale.”

“I’m okay,” Dick says quietly.

It’s hard to look Clark directly in the eyes, and every time he tries, he starts to feel sick as he remembers eerie, unnatural green and Tim Drake dead in his arms. He’s still struggling to separate the two Clarks in his head, but his head is still a mess, so it’s not surprising.

“Dick,” Clark says, his voice low and calm despite how worried he looks, “I don’t have to be here if you’re not up for it. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Dick shrugs and looks at Clark’s nose. “I’m always uncomfortable,” he admits. “Nothing really fits right in my head anymore. And besides—” Dick forces himself to look into blue— _notgreenjustblue—_ eyes as he remembers what Alfred said about things being not being normal, “—I really want to go flying with you right now.”

_Clark’s fist—Dick’s flying straight into the building, back first, head hitting the brick—unnatural green eyes fill his vision as he hits the ground._

Dick doesn’t react to anything that creeps into his vision. Instead, he gives Clark a hopeful smile. If he acts normal, then things go back to normal, right? “Pleeeeeeease?”

Bruce sighs. “Dick, it’s late.”

“So?” Dick blinks up at his guardian, who hasn’t said a word this entire time. There’s a knowing glint in his eye, and Dick stubbornly looks away. “We’ve been out later.”

“That’s not the point,” Bruce grumbles.

“Bruce is right,” Clark says, gaze flitting between Dick and Bruce. There’s something shaky about his smile, but Dick appreciates the effort. “Now’s probably not the best time, but I promise that we can _still_ go flying. Just not right now. When you’re feeling a little more like yourself, okay?”

Dick blinks, and his shoulders relax minutely. Beside him, Bruce shifts at the slight loss of tension. Dick kind of just stares and stares at Clark, because he’s not seeing _greengreengreen_ right now, or Tim’s body in a puddle of _redredred_.

All he sees is worried old Uncle Clark. Blue eyes clear and concerned, but still a little relieved, too, and Dick doesn’t really understand _why_ he’s not seeing anything but his good friend and superhero idol. He just is.

It’s so surprising that Dick’s eyes fill with tears, and he’s pushing himself out of Bruce’s hold and into Clark’s arms before he can even think about it, crying his eyes out.

Clark’s still here. Things aren’t as hopeless as he had thought. Maybe things _can_ get better if he can go from passing out at the sight of Clark to hugging the subject of some of his nightmarish flashbacks. Maybe he’ll be able to handle this.

Maybe things will finally be able to go back to normal. Dick hopes it does, and soon.


	9. Saving Grace, Thy Name Is Barbara Gordon - Part 1

Barbara knows that there’s something Dick isn’t telling her. She’s known it from the moment they’d first met. But it’s been almost two weeks since she’d heard from Dick, and when she’d asked the teachers where her friend was, they’d all said the same thing:

“I’m afraid Mr. Wayne took Richard out of school until he recovers fully from the flu.”

Alarm bells ring in her ears after she hears it for the first time, because she knows Dick, and she knows that he wouldn’t just up and disappear on her without at least having Alfred call her if he couldn’t call himself. Barbara needs to get to the bottom of this.  _Fast._

Which is how she finds herself here, climbing up the old brick of Wayne Manor, up and up until she reaches Dick’s bedroom window. She looks through the glass, huffing when she sees Dick reading a book, looking perfectly healthy and definitely not sick with the flu.

She taps on the glass.

Dick startles, book slipping through his fingertips to land on the bed, and his wide, blue eyes meet her green through the window. When he does nothing but stare at her for a few moments, Barbara rolls her eyes and taps on the glass again.

That seems to spur him into action, because he scrambles out of his bed and opens up the window for her. She promptly climbs in.

“What are you doing here?” he whispers, but he sounds—scared. 

It’s odd, and Barbara can’t help but tilt her head in confusion at his tone. He sounds like he doesn’t want her here, which is complete bull because usually he can’t go two days without company from someone other than Bruce and Alfred, and it’s been two  _weeks._  Dick should have been going stir crazy by now.

Barbara puts her hands on her hips, blowing out an exasperated breath. “I just climbed up a mansion for you, and the first thing you say to me is ‘what are you doing here?’ Classy, Grayson.”

Dick doesn’t fall for it, though. His eyes are still wide and scared, and he looks like—Barbara swallows, her hands falling to her sides as she actually takes him in.

He’s pale and washed-out, and there are dark shadows underneath his eyes. His eyes never leave hers, but he stands still. Stiller than she’s ever seen him. And the way he’s looking at her. It’s not unlike the way Barbara’s seen a few of the kids her dad’s taken from abusive homes. There’s a hardness there that is so telling of the situation. A wall to keep everyone out, so nobody can see the pain endured.

It terrifies her that Dick looks ten times worse than any of those other kids she’s seen, so Barbara grabs Dick’s hand and says seriously, “Talk to me, Dick. Don’t shut me out.”

“You’re not gonna get it,” Dick tells her, blinking rapidly, like he’s trying to block something out. “You’re—not even _Bruce_ gets it.”

Barbara wants to push. _Really_ push. But Dick looks like he’ll break down if she tries, and that’s not her goal here. Her goal has just been to make sure that Dick is okay, and if Dick isn’t okay, then she can try to fix it, right?

“Okay,” Barbara says. “The teacher said you’re sick. Are you sick?”

Dick shakes his head. “No.”

“Then let’s play a game.”

“A game?” Dick looks sort of dumb-founded, and Barbara finds herself rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, dummy.”

She takes Dick’s hand, ignoring the slight flinch, and tugs him to the bedroom door, out into the hall, down the stairs, and into the den, where the board games are stashed. She’s sure that Alfred and Bruce both know she’s here, already—she’s come in through the window before, and wasn’t that the shock of her life—so she’s not so bothered by anybody finding her and telling her to leave. It would have already happened by now if they were bothered.

“Monopoly, LIFE, or checkers?” Barbara asks, eyeing the games on the shelf. “Or are you in a chess mood?”

Dick’s still kind of blinking at her, but he looks more starstruck than confused, so Barbara nudges him.

“Oh!” Dick exclaims, turning his attention to the game shelf. “Uh, let’s just play checkers?”

Barbara shrugs. “Prepare to lose.”

Normally, Barbara would hear an indignant yell from Dick “Competitive” Grayson about how Barbara _was not_ going to beat him, even though she most certainly would based off their track record, but all she gets is a grimace.

Barbara pulls out the checkers board and they play.

It’s boring.

Dick doesn’t talk much—he doesn’t move much, either, and a lot of his time is spent staring into space. Barbara doesn’t like it one bit.

“You know what you need?” Barbara finally speaks up after a long moment of silence. Dick’s lost half of his pieces, and he doesn’t even seem to care, and it’s making Barbara’s win feel pathetic, and the game really isn’t fun.

“Do I need something?” Dick wonders, looking up from the board.

Barbara huffs out an exasperated breath. “Yeah, you need to come back to school. _But_ , I think an outing would be good, too.”

“An outing?”

Barbara sighs, because Dick really needs to stop looking at her with those wide blue eyes, like he’s got no idea what’s going on. He’s so obviously off, and Barbara thinks that a walk to their favorite ice cream place would be _perfect_.

“Yep,” Barbara says, jumping to her feet. Dick follows slowly, cautiously. “Ice cream. On me.”

Dick cringes. “I don’t think Bruce is gonna let me go.”

“Then don’t tell him.” That’s what Barbara does with her dad. It’s practically a policy for stuff like this now, since he’s usually so busy at the precinct.

“Bruce is gonna know whether I tell him or not.”

That gives Barbara some pause. “Hm. I guess you’re right. Mr. Wayne is probably a lot smarter than he makes himself look.”

Dick gives her an odd look. Lets out a small, steadying breath. “Um. Right. Plus, all of the security stuff.”

“Is he home?” Barbara wonders.

“No, but Alfred is. And the moment I disappear, Alfie’s gonna call Bruce and tell on me, and then come pick me up. Or pick me up himself. I don’t know which one would be worse. And _then_ Bruce isn’t going to let me go—”

Dick falls silent. It almost seems like he’s literally biting his tongue in frustration, and Barbara doesn’t know exactly what he’s hiding—maybe it has to do with why he’s so off, or maybe it’s whatever secret he’s been keeping since before this incident that Barbara’s never pushed at—but she knows now’s probably not the best time to push at any walls, no matter how shaky they are.

“Well,” Barbara says, staring at the doorway to the den. “We can always ask.”

“No need,” Alfred says from the doorway, and at his voice, Dick tenses. “I would be glad to personally escort the two of you to the ice cream parlor. And the park afterwards?”

Barbara lights up. “Oh, that would be fun! Right, Dick?”

Dick turns slowly, giving Alfred a perplexed look. “Really? But, I thought…?”

Alfred smiles slightly. “You’ve been cooped up far too long for a boy your age,” the butler says. “I’m sure Master Bruce wouldn’t mind you spending a few hours with a friend. Do you want to go?”

Dick looks at Barbara, back to Alfred, back to Barbara, and then back to Alfred, and Barbara’s kind of ready to smack him upside the head.

“Yeah,” he finally says, a small smile lighting up his face. With a start, Barbara realizes that it’s the first smile she’s seen on his face since she got here. “Yeah, I wanna go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr at camsthisky.tumblr.com


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